Page 39 of Dash to Me
“I’ll get her,” he says, kissing my forehead. “You rest.”
I watch him leave, his footsteps careful on the stairs to our bedroom where Amara’s bassinet sits beside our bed. Through the monitor, I hear his gentle voice.
“Hey there, little star. Did you have a good nap?”
His tenderness breaks me open every time. I never knew a man could be so natural at fatherhood, so willing to dive into the messiest, most exhausting parts without complaint. I move to the living room window, looking out at our small but perfect garden. I can almost see it already—two children chasing each other through the sprinkler, Atlas grilling on a summer evening, a bigger table for our growing family.
Tomorrow we’ll see the blue house on Maple Street. Tomorrow, we’ll start planning for another baby. Tomorrow, and all the tomorrows after.
For now, though, there’s just this moment—Atlas’s voice singing through the monitor, the afternoon sun, and the certainty that somehow, against all odds, I’ve found exactly where I belong.
“She just wanted to be part of the conversation,” he says, settling beside me on the couch. Amara blinks up at us, her dark eyes curious and alert.
I touch her cheek, marveling at the softness. “Do you think she knows how loved she is?”
“How could she not?” Atlas shifts her so she can see both our faces. “We practically radiate it.”
Outside, a light rain begins to fall, pattering against the windows in a gentle rhythm. It’s the perfect kind of afternoon—the three of us cocooned in warmth while the world outside grows soft and misty.
“Tell me about your dream for the blue house.”
Atlas thinks for a moment, his free hand finding mine. “I see a Christmas tree in the front window. Big enough that we need a ladder to put the star on top. And those creaky wooden floors that tell you the house has stories.”
“And the backyard?” I prompt, already picturing it myself.
“Huge. Room for a swing set, a vegetable garden. Maybe even a treehouse when the kids are older.” He pauses, looking down at Amara. “I can teach them to build it. My dad taught me.”
The image fills me with a warmth I can’t describe—Atlas on a ladder, our children handing him nails and pieces of wood, the sound of laughter floating across the yard.
“What about you?” he asks. “What do you see?”
I close my eyes, letting the vision form. “A kitchen big enough for everyone to help with dinner. A dining table where no one ever wants to leave because the conversation is too good. Window seats for reading on rainy days.”
“Like today,” he murmurs.
“Like today,” I agree.
Amara makes a small sound, something between a coo and a hiccup.
“I think she approves.”
I take her from him, nestling her against my chest where she can hear my heartbeat. “Of course she does. She’s brilliant, like her father.”
“And perceptive, like her mother.” He kisses my temple, then Amara’s head. “I’m going to make us some tea. The good kind, with honey.”
As he moves to the kitchen, I whisper to our daughter, “You’re just the beginning, little one. Just the first star in our constellation.”
She yawns in response, her eyelids growing heavy again. People always said infants sleep a lot when they are born, but I thought they were kidding. Is she already ready for another nap?
I smile, watching her eyes flutter closed. She does sleep often, but Dr. Chen assured us it’s normal. She’s growing, developing, dreaming her baby dreams. I wonder what she sees behind those delicate eyelids—perhaps colors and shapes, or maybe she dreams of the safety of my womb, the sound of my heartbeat that was her constant companion for nine months.
Atlas returns with two steaming mugs, setting them on the coffee table before joining us on the couch. He drapes his arm around my shoulders, creating a perfect circle of warmth around Amara and me.
“She’s out again,” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear.
“Growing is exhausting business,” I reply, breathing in Amara’s sweet baby scent. It’s intoxicating, that smell. I could recognize it blindfolded in a room full of babies. It’s uniquely hers.
Atlas takes a sip of his tea. “I forgot to tell you. Mom called while you were napping earlier. She wants to come visit next weekend.”
