Page 36 of From Maybe to Baby

"I see." She takes a breath, professional mask sliding back into place. "Well, I should probably observe some other activities. Preferably ones that don't involve marriage proposals."

"They mean well," I say. "They just... they see someone being kind to them and they want to keep them. Make them part of the story."

Something flickers across her face. "I'm not really the 'part of the story' type."

"No?" I catch her eye. "Could have fooled me with that princess braid magic earlier."

"That was..." She looks away. "Research. For the article."

"Right. Very professional research."

"Exactly."

"DAD," Lukas calls, his face smeared with hummus. “Can Miss Minty come see the fish with us?”

Alexa gathers her things with impressive speed. "I should really check out the... the..."

"Adult pool?" I suggest. "The one with significantly less marriage talk?"

"That." She stands, then pauses. "They're good kids, you know. Even if they're trying to marry off their dad to random resort guests."

"Not so random," I say before I can stop myself. "They have excellent taste."

Her blush is definitely not professional. "I’ll see you later.”

As she walks away, Jace calls out one more time: "Remember the princesses!"

I watch Alexa’s shoulders shake with what might be laughter before she disappears around the corner. When I join the kids, they’re drawing what looks like a volcano surrounded by flowers.

“She’s nice,” Jace announces, adding what I’m pretty sure is a heart to the scene. “Right, Daddy?”

I glance at their hopeful faces, then at the corner where Alexa disappeared, and finally at the mess of carrots they’ve left all over the table.

“Finish your volcano,” I say. “Nice doesn’t mean anything.”

And yet, I don’t stop myself from looking back at the empty corner.

Every parent knows that look.The one that comes right before total meltdown. I see it building in Jace's eyes during dinner—that dangerous combination of overtired and overstimulated that usually ends with the entire family in tears.

"Jace, do you want to go back to the room? I think you’re tired."

"NO." She slams her kids’ fork down with the force of someone three times her size. "NOT tired."

The couple at the next table gives us a look—one that says they're either judging my parenting or remembering their own little ones’ days with PTSD-level clarity.

"Inside voice," I remind her, but we're way past inside voice territory. We're entering full nuclear meltdown zone.

"I DON'T WANT INSIDE VOICE." The fork goes flying. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the universe rumble in sympathy. "I WANT TO SWIM MORE," she shrieks.

Lukas, ever helpful, chips in, "Jace, you're being a baby. Baby, baby, baby."

And there it is. The final straw.

The scream that then erupts from my daughter must register on seismic monitors. Her face goes that special shade of red that only three-year-olds can achieve, and the tears, oh, the tears. They flow like Niagara Falls.

"I'M NOT A BABY." She throws something else to the floor too fast for me to see it. "I HATE THIS."

I'm calculating the fastest escape route when a familiar voice cuts through the commotion. "Did you know there used to be a princess right here in this restaurant?"

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