I'm all for the way my husband has started wearing his hair as of late - it's hot as hell - but I suspect it'll be in a ponytail more often than not. Keeping my curls out of our youngest's fists is a full time job. Baby Beau is stronger than he has any right to be, and once he gets his hands on something, he doesn't exactly like letting go of it.

Our toddler, Ren, is extremely hyper, giving Bret a real run for his money. Why is he like that? Bret will pant, breathless. I didn't teach him this. As a matter of fact, yes, he did. I'm burned out mentally and financially. By the end of the day, Bret is checking his pulse. And this is the baby that had such a hard start to life, so many complications requiring ventilation and tube feeding and surgery, that the entire hospital unit celebrated with us the day he came home.

Today is our first thanksgiving as a family of four. Bret's aunt and uncle are hosting. And as we shop for apple pie and flowers and gift cards, Ren screams hi from his stroller to everyone we pass. He does this thing where he'll call strangers random names that he knows, and be completely incorrect but confident about it.

Beau falls asleep in his carseat on the way to the house.

"Look at his avocado bod," I coo when Bret comes around to help me transfer him.

"What a chunky milk belly," Bret agrees. That tubby belly, twitching in his sleep, just demands raspberries blown on it. I lift him expertly from the carseat, cradling the back of his head, and pressing him to my chest in a seamless transfer that doesn't wake him. And I'm proud of that.

I'm wearing a classy cream cable-knit sweater, carrying Beau while Bret leads Ren by the hand. Bret has never looked so domestic as he does now, in a plaid sweater vest and pleated khakis.

"Attaboy," Bret's uncle claps his back at some point during the initial exchange of pleasantries. "You've got yourself a beautiful family. Grab life by the balls and give them a hearty squeeze, that's what I always say." Bret preens under the praise.

When I follow him into the family room, I'm met with so much cooing and awwing from my in-laws that Beau wakes up and starts crying.

"Oooh, sweetheart," I croon, settling his head on my shoulder and rubbing his back gently.

"Look at them, they're so precious!" Ren hides behind my pant leg while Chelsea fawns over them. "You're doing such a good job with them."

"He is," Bret affirms. His hand is comforting on my back.

"We both are," I beam at him. I haven't forgotten the early days, when we were young and stupid and had no idea what the future held, but out of our minds with excitement and hope. I can still see Bret tackling me into a hug, and hear, we're having a baby! Who can say that they saw this, us,  coming?

Everyone's here, even my mom. Apparently, grandchildren are what she needed to find her purpose in life. And now she has them galore: Ren, through adoption; Beau, biologically Bret's through surrogacy; and a third on the way, who will be her biological granddaughter, Ellie Dove Palmer.

Avery and Roger are so big; I can't look at them without tearing up.

I spot Rudy and Bret across the room, Rudy's mouth shaping around the words, I'm proud of you, son, and then they're hugging, and I know it's not as simple as letting bygones be bygones but it warms my heart to know we have the support. In Beau's ninth month, Bret spent a lot of time on the phone with Rudy, asking him all sorts of panicked questions about their genetics; Rudy laughed and told him everything would be fine.

Dinner is a pleasant affair. I bottle-feed Beau while Bret spoon-feeds Ren with one hand and me with the other. There are plenty of volunteers to relieve us, but we enjoy the duties. The kids won't be little for long, and we want to savour these moments.

Afterwards, we settle down in the family room watching family videos and conversing over wine and pie.

Our wedding video is played. Bret's entrance was iconic. He fist-bumped all the groomsmen amidst applause and cheers on his way to the altar. He wore all black: tie, dress shirt, and suit. I wore all white. We had a sparkler exit. A horse. A sweetheart table. Fireworks. A portrait artist. And a grown man as the flower girl. It was a beautiful and fun affair.

Chelsea asks me about my combination bookstore bakery. A few months ago, I signed a six-month lease which I hope will be the precedent to a longer commercial lease. We bought it spontaneously. It was closing down. But I understood what the previous lenders didn't, that people don't go to bookshops to buy books; they can do that online. They go for the experience. The vibe. The aesthetic.

We eat until we're bursting at the seams, then pack the kids up in the car, and head home.

My lips twitch in a smile as we pull into the driveway. Our house stands tall and dreamy with its blue shutters and wood lattice-covered patio covered with climbing flowers. It's something with character, filled with books and art and plants and all of the things that make me happy.

As I climb the stairs with the kids, I pass under one framed photograph or portrait after another, going back from the beginning to when Bret and I were kids, to now, when we have our own kids.

While I tuck the boys in, Bret goes into our en-suite bathroom where I hear him run a bath. It's been a long, busy day.

When I've finished making my rounds, Bret greets me at the door to our bedroom wearing absolutely nothing, and drags me to the bathtub, where I find lots of foam, and champagne, and candles. Not real ones, but still.

"Wait, what?"

"Surprise." He crowds in behind me. "I'm so thankful for you, baby."

"Bret, what is this?"

"Last week, you made a candlelit dinner with cocktails. It's my turn now." He kisses my neck. "You've been doing so much... With the kids and the shop... You're incredible."

"But...you don't have to do all this-"

"You don't believe you deserve this," Bret remarks, marvelling. He steps into the tub and sinks slowly into the foam before extending a hand to me. "What are you waiting for? Come in and let me show you how much I appreciate you."

I'm not sure exactly why I start crying. Maybe it's because I never got candlelit lovemaking from Rudy or any other man in my life. Maybe it's because I'm really tired and I really needed this. 

"Look how beautiful you are," Bret murmurs later, when I'm splayed out on the bed. "Smooth everywhere... Rosebud literally smelling like roses... You're a fucking dream."

I don't have long to admire how sexy he is, all muscle and sweat and dazzling good looks, before he gives in to his obsession with being face first in my crotch, moaning ugh; this fucking pussy while I gasp at the ceiling.

I wake up feeling sleepy and warm, cocooned in Bret's familiar arms. Slinky. Loose. Syrupy. Happy. Liquid. Glowy. Dazed. So many words, not quite synonymous but all describing the same feeling. I'm feeling so, so loved and whole and other things too big to name.

From the bed, I watch Bret lather up, shave, get dressed, apply his cologne.

As a captain, he works in administration and management now, removed from the dangers of our old job. I left firefighting entirely to focus on the shop, partly because it was my dream and partly for the kids.

The babies are still asleep and I don't have to open the shop for another couple of hours, so I settle against the headboard with my laptop, lying lazily in tousled white sheets, and write.

Bret looks so handsome when he comes back into the room. I really love the wardrobe change that his new job has entailed.

"Good morning," he whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to my lips. "What're you doing?"

"Mm, morning, handsome. Writing," I hum.

For the most part, ours has been a slow love, uncomplicated and easy. That's how it is when you marry your best friend. I think I subconsciously rejected Bret because I didn't want a boring, stable love. Like he said, I wanted passion, drama, a chance encounter with a stranger at midnight. I read so many books that I'd come to expect that sort of fantasy from my real life. I was so busy looking for that storybook romance, I couldn't see what was right under my nose. What we have is...not what I expected. We still call each other man, dude and bro sometimes. But there's love in the words, a love that's always been there. And maybe bros to lovers is a tired trope. But it's still a better love story than Twilight.

Now that I finally understand what love really is, I've gone back and heavily revised my book.

I've finally gained the clarity to see how silly I was, how damaging and unhealthy my obsession with Rudy was. Infatuation is a virus. It hits you out of nowhere, knocks you out and leaves you prone and vulnerable. You're not yourself for a little while, but then you get over it. The biggest thing I learned from that episode of my life was how easy it is to be blinded by your own desire, to deceive yourself.

I never could've anticipated this ending. I'm with Bret, not Rudy, and I'm friends with the guy Rudy cheated on me with. Life has such a spectacular fucking way of turning out exactly how you'd least expect it.

"What're you smiling at?" Bret leans down to nose at my neck. "And when are you gonna tell me what the book is about?"

I smile at the screen while Bret kisses my skin appreciatively. Every touch and sensation makes me feel like I'm floating, the warm light coming in through the window soaking the bedroom in gold, and my spine feels utterly liquid.

"The same thing everyone writes about...love."

"Daddyyyyyyy!" The baby monitor crackles to life, Ren's shout for attention filling the room.

"Go get him, daddy," I murmur, smiling up at my husband.

"Come with me, sweetheart," Bret implores, and it's not because he's weirdly crippled without me; we've talked about showing our kids from an early age how much we love each other, so they have good standards for their future relationships.

"I'll be there in a minute."

Surrounded by love and swaddled in sheets that smell like Bret, I type out the last words to my story:

The End.