Our tiny apartment felt like a sprawling mansion when we curled up on the couch with our golden retriever, Whiskey, his tail thumping against the old coffee table we’d dragged home from a garage sale.
“We’re going to have the most beautiful life together, Lila,” Dorian whispered one night, his fingers weaving through my hair. “Just you, me, and whatever wonderful surprises life decides to bring us.”
Those surprises came quickly. Emma, our tornado of energy, arrived first. She was curious about everything, never satisfied with one answer, and had the stamina to keep asking questions long after I was ready for bed.
Marcus followed four years later, roaring his way through childhood with the absolute certainty that he was secretly a dinosaur trapped in a little boy’s body.
Then came Finn, whose idea of sleep seemed to involve 20-minute naps spaced throughout the night, leaving Dorian and me stumbling through the days in a haze.
Motherhood hit me like a tidal wave. The days blurred into endless laundry, sticky fingerprints appearing on every surface, and negotiations between siblings that would challenge diplomats.
Meals were scavenged from whatever hadn’t yet expired in the fridge, my coffee went cold before I could finish it, and dry shampoo became my closest ally.
Sometimes, I’d catch my reflection, and I’d lose myself for a moment.
“Where did you go, Lila?” I’d ask.
And honestly, that was the question of the decade. Where had I gone? The woman who used to dress up for dinners, laugh too loudly at Dorian’s jokes, and feel pretty just because he looked at her — she felt like a stranger.
And Dorian noticed.
One Tuesday morning, I was juggling Finn on my hip, while Emma whined about her missing pink crayon, and Marcus was smearing peanut butter through his hair, when Dorian’s voice cut through the chaos.
“You look really tired today, Lila,” he remarked casually, eyes locked on his phone.
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