Page 40 of Dash to Me
“That would be nice.” Unlike the horror stories I hear about mothers-in-law, Atlas’s mother has been nothing but supportive. She comes bearing homemade meals and takes Amara for a few hours so we can shower or nap or simply remember what it feels like to be alone together.
“She mentioned bringing those baby books she found in the attic. Apparently, I was quite the literary critic at three months old.”
I laugh, careful not to disturb Amara. “I can see it—tiny Atlas with a furrowed brow, judging the narrative structure of ‘Goodnight Moon.’”
“Hey, it’s a complex work,” he defends with a grin.
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, sipping tea and watching the rain trace patterns down the windows. These are the moments I want to bottle up and keep forever—the weight of Amara against my chest, Atlas’s steady presence beside me, the feeling that nothing outside this room matters.
“What if,” Atlas says suddenly, his voice thoughtful, “we have a boy next?”
The question catches me off guard, not because I haven’t thought about it, but because I have—extensively. “I’ve been wondering the same thing. A little boy with your curls and that serious expression you get when you’re concentrating.”
“Poor kid,” Atlas chuckles. “Cursed with my hair.”
“Blessed,” I correct him. “Definitely blessed.”
He reaches over to stroke Amara’s back, his hand so large compared to her tiny form. “I’d teach him to fish, like my dad taught me. And how to change a tire. But also how to bake cookies and sew on a button.”
“Atlas Lockwood. You can sew?”
He shrugs. “There is still so much you have yet to know about me.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Are there other domestic skills you’ve been hiding from me? Can you also knit? Make souffles? Reupholster furniture?”
“A man has to maintain some mystery,” he says with that half-smile that still makes my stomach flutter. “But I’ll have you know my grandmother was very insistent that all hergrandchildren learn basic mending. Said she wouldn’t have us walking around with holes in our pockets.”
I can picture it—a younger Atlas, brow furrowed in concentration as he pushes a needle through fabric under his grandmother’s watchful eye. The same grandmother our daughter is named for.
“I love that,” I say softly. “I love that our children will have these pieces of your family, these traditions.”
Atlas nods, his eyes growing distant with memory. “And yours too. Your mother’s recipes, your father’s terrible jokes.”
“God help us all if they inherit those jokes,” I groan, but there’s no real complaint in it. My father’s puns are legendary in their awfulness, but they’re part of him, part of my childhood.
Amara stirs against me, making those little milk-drunk movements that never fail to melt my heart. Her tiny hand escapes the swaddle, reaching up toward nothing in particular.
“Wait, are we going to be strict parents?”
“You’ll be the one sneaking her cookies when I’m not looking, and I’ll be the one enforcing bedtime. Perfect parenting equilibrium.”
“I can live with that arrangement,” he says, leaning over to kiss me.
The rain picks up outside, a steady drumming against the roof. It feels like the world is conspiring to keep us here, cocooned in this moment.
“What time is the showing tomorrow?”
“Eleven. I figured that gives us time for Amara’s morning feed and still gets us home before her afternoon nap.”
I nod, appreciating as always how Atlas thinks of these things, how he’s memorized our daughter’s schedule as thoroughly as I have.
“Should we make a list?” I ask. “Of what we’re looking for in the house?”
Atlas reaches for his phone. “Already started one. Want to hear?”
“Of course.”
He scrolls through his notes. “Three bedrooms minimum, preferably four. Two bathrooms. Good-sized yard. Walking distance to the park. Quiet street, but not too far from downtown. Kitchen with enough counter space for your baking experiments.”
