The votes are in and boys won out overwhelmingly. For those of you that wanted one of each, I had already written in previous chapters they were identical and I thought twins of the same sex would be good for storyline purposes down the road, especially for any comedy. Phoebe can remain his princess now, but there is a definite possibility for more sisters in the future as I do love Christian with girls. Thank you for voting and reading all my stories! More to come! The twins will be born soon... Happy Father's Day! xox

I CAN HEAR them downstairs. The rustling; the clanking and clanging; the not so hushed whispers warning each other that they'll wake me if they aren't careful. But, they don't know that at just past six in the morning I'm already wide awake and tiptoeing down the staircase to catch them in the act. I know they want to surprise me—and they will—but I just couldn't resist a peek of my wife and kids preparing my father's day breakfast.

"No, Daddy doesn't like so much pickles," I can hear Phoebe say as I reach the door. It's open a crack, so I can see what's going on. Phoebe's sitting on the center island with her legs and monkey slippered feet swinging off the edge—with Chester on her shoulder in matching monkey footie pajamas—pointing a finger at Teddy, who's wrist deep in a jar of dill chips.

"I'm making a sandwich omelet," Teddy says. "Everybody in all of the earth knows you can't make sandwiches right without the pickles." He shakes his head, exasperated as he slaps his handful into his red plastic bowl, adding a shake of the juice for good measure. And as I look at the jar of Vlasics, I'm bemused as to why a stork is their mascot. Do birds eat pickles? Don't storks bring babies? What does a pickle in a jar have to do with making babies, anyway? And suddenly I'm aghast at the overt sexual undertones going on in my very own refrigerator.

Teddy climbs up on his stool, reaches onto the counter and opens a loaf of brand name white bread, pawing around inside the wrapping a bit, until he finds two pieces to his liking. Hey, who the hell bought that white bread? I never let the kids eat that shit. I bet it was Taylor. Always trying to get on their good side with his closeted junk food habit. That junkie. He thinks I don't see the Ho-Hos he hides in the glove compartment of the SUV, but I do. I have Ho-Ho radar.

"Eww, you can't put the breads in lom-lets," Phoebe says as Teddy throws two squished up slices into the bowl. This kid has really inherited all of my culinary skill.

"But, it's not a sandwich without the breads," he says, and makes sure to squish the bread within an inch of its preservative laden shelf life.

"I don't ever eat wet pickle and egg sammys," Phoebe says, scrunching her nose. Chester does, too. Chester looks kind of cute as a little monkey. Although the feet on that thing are as big as his monkey hooded head.

When Teddy reaches for the mustard and ketchup and a bottle of Flamin' Jimmy's hot sauce, I know I'm in for it. I bet Taylor is responsible for Flamin' Jimmy, too.

"Teddy, why don't you just do ham and cheese for the filling and we can set the French toast on each side and that can be the bread," Ana says as she appears from the pantry with some sugar and spices and everything about her looking so nices. She's a goddess with her hair piled on top of her head and her silver satin gown and robe that hugs to her almost twice baked bump and her luscious breasts, while the rest cascades behind her like a waterfall. Debasement and high ideals all in one, is my Ana. And I smile, because I know any other Sunday morning she'd be in her comfy plush terry cloth and my old t-shirts and sweat pants, but she knows I like her in the finest satin or silk, so she's dressed for me today.

"But, I wanna put pickles in it," Teddy pouts.

"Tell you what—how about we put a few on top after we cook it? That way Daddy can see how creative and delicious it is as soon as he looks at it."

"Okay," Teddy says happily after a few seconds of thought, and Ana seamlessly replaces his bowl of the kill Dad concoction with a new clean one. How does she do that? If I was in charge of this breakfast there'd be pickles and eggs stuck to the walls and the ceiling, the kids would be crying or laughing at me, and the fire alarm would currently be going off, even though the stove isn't even on yet. Like I said to her once, long ago now, she really has the measure of us Grey men.

"I get to make the Paris toast!" Phoebe says, throwing her arms in the air, as Ana grabs a few slices from a loaf of brioche and eggs from the fridge, and sets them next to a dish on the center island. Phoebe always calls French toast, Paris toast. It's her favorite city in the world, though she hasn't been there yet. I think it's high time I take her. We'll do it up right. Shopping sprees at Chanel and Dior, the ballet, the finest hot chocolate and French macaroons after a day of sightseeing and play. The first time a girl sees Paris should be with a man who will love her completely and forever. And I smile remembering Ana seeing it for the first time with me on our honeymoon. And though I can't be sure, I've always held the belief that that's where we conceived our Teddy. It was the night I made that date in Paris we dreamed of while hidden away at the Fairmont once a reality. And it was pure magic.

As I watch the children cracking eggs (mostly onto the table and floor) and dipping bread (thankfully Ana stopped them from doing this in said eggs on the table and floor) and whisking this beautiful morning up for me, I get to thinking about the first time I found out I was going to be father. And if there's one day, out of all the days in my life I wish I could change, it's that one.

"I'm pregnant," Ana said as she sat next to me at the breakfast bar where we ate dinner, and my world, fittingly, shifted from day to night. Life loves a good metaphor. I laugh about that now. I didn't then.

I sat there stunned for a moment far longer than a husband should when his wife tells him this news. A husband should be happy, I knew that. A husband should hold his wife and they should laugh about baby names that'll never make the cut and guess whether it'll be a boy or a girl, or the president or an astronaut. A husband should tell his wife he loves her, not sit there staring ahead, leaving the room more pregnant with pause than with new life. I knew all a husband should do, but I wasn't doing anything.

"How?" is all I could finally ask. She gave me a look like—how the fuck do you think? "But, your shot?" I whispered, incredulous. I started counting the days and the weeks back in my mind. She got it on a Sunday and what day was this? Was it due last week or next week or when? "Did you forget your shot?"

She looked away and I knew. And then I was angry. Angry at her for forgetting when she promised that she wouldn't; angry at myself for not having a better handle on this situation; angry at life, because once I was finally happy, it threw this curve ball, forcing me be the one thing I knew I could never be—a father. Because what man could truly be a father who never even knew the name of his own?

"I'm sorry," she whispered, after I let a few more moments void of what a husband should be doing pass.

"Sorry?" I asked, standing abruptly. "Fuck!" And that word was cold and loud and ugly, and it bounced off the marble and echoed in the halls until the whole place was filled with it. And I'll always be forced to remember that that 'Fuck' is the word I used to greet the news of my first son.

"I know the timing's not very good," she said.

"Not very good?!" I shouted, running my hands through my hair. I can't explain what I was feeling other than saying it was akin to a mighty ship sinking. A tiny iceberg bringing it down. "We've known each other five fucking minutes. I wanted to show you the fucking world and now...Fuck. Diapers and vomit and shit!" I paced and paced, but she stood still. " I thought we'd agreed on this!"

"I know. We had. I'm sorry."

"This is why. This is why I like control," I said as I was losing it. "So shit like this doesn't come along and fuck everything up."

"Christian—"

"You think I'm ready to be a father?" my voice cracked.

"I know neither one of us is ready for this," she said and though she was crying, she was so much stronger than me. "But, I think you'll make a wonderful father..."

"How would you know?" I asked, honestly. I wanted her to be able to tell me. "How could you possibly know?"

She didn't have an answer. "We'll figure it out," is all she uttered. But, that wasn't the answer to a problem. That was a wing and prayer, and I never had much luck with either.

And then, I did what a husband should never do—I left.

A clang of pots steals me back to my reality—my family. My daughter sprinkling cinnamon into a bowl of egg batter and my son fumbling with pots and pans. And my wife, who knew me better than I ever knew myself, mothering them as she carries my two unborn sons in her belly.  

"Shhh, Teddy," Ana says, helping him take his pan and the omelet concoction he's mixed up for me in his bowl to the stove. "I'll cook everything, you stay away from the fire."

"Cook mine, too, for Daddy," Phoebe says as she hops down from the counter carrying two dripping pieces of egg battered bread to Ana. And I remember how the day I found out about Phoebe was so different— I made love to my wife and I popped champagne.

"Sir," I hear Taylor say from around the corner. He always flies out from the darkest places. Perhaps he's really a bat and lives in them. "Is everything alright?"

"Shh," I say, motioning to the kitchen and shooing him back. Why is he all sweaty and bug eyed? He looks like he's been acting out trench warfare fantasies in a pig sty. "What are you doing in your jogging shorts in the house at this time of the morning?" I whisper.

"I was out for a bit of a mud run and saw the lights were on and I wanted to check if everything was okay, Mr. Grey." What the hell is a bit of a mud run and who does that before six am on a Sunday? I feel like I'm the horse whisperer staring at his muddy gams while we talk so hushed. For a man so big up top, he sure is pine needles on the bottom.

"It's fine. I'm just trying to watch my family make me breakfast without them finding out."

"Yes, sir." He rarely questions my oddities anymore, and that's a good thing, as there are many.

I peek back through the door and he annoyingly looks over my shoulder to see the action taking place. I'm sure he's that guy on planes always snooping at your copy of Men's Fitness or Hulk Daily or 'Roids World through the crack from the seat behind. Luckily I don't read those things and I have my own jet, so I can organize his seating arrangements so I can see where his eyeballs are landing.

"You have a lovely family, sir," he says as we watch Phoebe decorate a tray, lovingly, with a mason jar full of flowers and Teddy putting the finishing pickles on the omelet Ana just plated.

"Yes, I do, Taylor," I whisper to him, emotion catching in my throat as my eyes begin to well. There's so much water in my well I could bathe a town and fill a swimming pool. It's funny, after I lost my mother I told myself I wouldn't cry again, and I didn't. Not until Ana left me. And then I cried every night she was gone. I cried when she came back, and then again when I first made love to her, and when she washed the lipstick from my chest. I cried when she knew the worst of me and she still stayed, and when I asked her for her hand. I cried when she said "yes" (both times) and the day I married her I wept. I cried over her hospital bed day and night when I thought I lost her and our little blip. I cried when each of our children were born and countless times since. With Ana, I cry a lot. But, I also feel a lot, too. And as I told Phoebe once when she sobbed, mourning over a flower that had been discarded and stepped on and whose petals had fallen from the stem, it's the teardrops felt from the heart that make the garden grow again.

"Taylor," I say, my thoughts again stolen back.

"Yes, Mr. Grey?"

"Do you remember that helicopter ride we took after Ana told me she was pregnant?" I whisper.

"Which time, sir?"

"The first time." I shake my head.

"Yes, sir. I do." And I can tell he's grinning. I know how his "sirs" sound when he smiles.

"Mrs. Grey went home sick," Taylor said, hanging up his phone, as we boarded the helicopter to head for home.

"What do you mean?" I asked, suddenly panicked. "What's wrong with her?" 

"She was nauseated. I'm sure it's normal, sir," he said as he strapped himself in.

"Normal? It's not normal to be nauseated! She could have the flu or food poisoning. Has a doctor been alerted to the possibility of an ulcer?"

"She's pregnant, sir," he said as way of explanation and that word was a hot potato dropped right into my naked lap.

"Right, of course," I muttered as I fastened my belts and checked the instruments. But, all I was thinking about is—Ana is sick and Ana is pregnant and Ana is alone. I hadn't spoken to Ana all day. She was in her old room when I had come home purposely late last night. But, there was no way I could sleep in my bed—that was now our bed—without her. Ironic, since that was our original arrangement. So, I sat in the chair next to her and watched her as she dreamed. And I imagined that baby, so delicate and small and no bigger than a pinch of cells, growing inside of her. That was our baby—me and the woman I professed before God and man as the love of my life. And I was its father. And as much as I never wanted to be like my real father—whoever the fuck he was—wasn't this what happened to my mother? Didn't that bastard leave her alone? And wasn't I worse because, unlike me, he probably didn't even know that I existed at all? I wanted to wake her up and tell her I loved her, tell her it would all be okay. But, like a coward, I whispered "I'm so sorry, Ana" in the dark.

"I had just come back from the Middle East," Taylor said. Oh Christ. I thought he was going to tell me war stories like he often did on our travels and I couldn't deal with his shit, so I reached for my cans. But, he stopped me with a firm hand. "I met a girl at a bar and we weren't careful."

"Okay, Taylor. Enough information." I reached for the cans and he stopped me again. All I could think was—Hey, who the fuck is paying who here?

"To make a long story short," he said, forcefully, making damn sure his gorilla paw wasn't letting my fingers anywhere near the cans. "Six weeks later we had a surprise."

"Taylor, I don't need to hear this—"

"I was terrified," he kept on, enunciating the real terror he felt in that word. I've heard him speak of battle and bloodshed with less trauma. Of course, he gets off on those things. "I wasn't ready. I told her I wasn't ready. I even walked down the aisle with her knowing I wasn't ready for any of it." His eyes softened and teared a bit, and I didn't know what that meant then, but since having my children, I know that that's the moment in his mind when he saw his daughter for the first time. "And then Sophie was born and they put her in my arms..." A smile spread across his face. "And you know what happened, Mr. Grey?" He turned and looked me straight in the eyes.

"Let me guess, you were suddenly, miraculously ready?" I looked away and rolled my own.

"No, I still wasn't ready. I'm not ready to this day," he said, and something about his tone made me turn back to look at him. "Everyday with my daughter there's something new not to be ready for, sir. The not being ready never ends."

"So, what's your point?" I asked.

"When they ask you to go into battle, they don't give a fuck if you're ready, Mr. Grey. All they care about is that you're there. And if you don't man up, strap up your boots and get your gun loaded, you're going home in a body bag, sir."

"Look Taylor, I know you think somehow your story is the same as mine, but it's not."

"You're right, Mr. Grey. It's not." He gives me a pointed look. Who was this guy and what did he do with my agreeable man servant?"

"Okay, you're right. I know your marriage didn't work and I love my wife. I want to be married to her. But, I'm not cut out to be a father, you of all people know that. Taylor, you know who I really am."

"Yes, I do, Mr. Grey." He was serious. "Of all people, I do know the real you. And in all the years I've worked for you, I've never questioned your lifestyle or your judgement or anything you've asked of me, so I hope you can forgive me—or possibly thank me one day— for what I'm about to say to you now..." He took a deep breath, like he was cocking his mental gun to blow off my head. "Get your shit together and go back to your wife before you lose the best damn thing that ever happened to you, sir."

I look over to Taylor today, who's still grinning like a loon as he watches the scene in the kitchen. 

"Thank you, Taylor," I say.

"For what, sir?"

"For believing that one day I really would thank you."

"Yes, sir." He smiles and looks a little weepy himself.

"Don't get all emotional on me," I say. "It's a one time deal."

"Of course, sir."

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go back to bed and pretend to be asleep so I can celebrate Father's Day."

#######

"Why do you get to carry the Daddy tray?" I can hear Phoebe whisper in the hall as I'm tucked, snug as a bug, back in bed.

"Because, I'm a man," Teddy says. "I got bigger must-les."

"Nuh uh, I could climb all of the jungle gyms so much betterer than you and beat up all your friends." That's my Phoebe. I will always encourage this attitude of beating up the boys.

"Shh, kids," Ana whispers. "Phoebe, your job is to wake Daddy. Teddy gets to carry the tray."

"What's Chester's job?" Phoebe asks.

"To give him lots of kisses." Kisses? Since when do kisses draw blood?

I can hear Phoebe's footsteps start to quicken. She's running down the hall. Uh oh. Phoebe waking me is never a peaceful event, and I don't expect it to be any easier after a full out sprint. I shut my eyes tight and prepare for the blows.

"Daddy, Daddy," Phoebe says and the next thing I feel is a knee to my gut and my guy. "You gotta open your eyes!" She takes her two fingers and manually parts my right lids. "Happy Father's Day!" Suddenly this has turned into A Clockwork Orange.

With Tony worthy theatrics I yawn and stretch and peel the other eye open to join its counterpart. Though, Phoebe's knee hits my stomach again and my phony yawn turns into a real gasp for air.

Teddy walks into the room carrying the tray. With each step he takes the contents slide back and forth across the wood. I fear breakfast apocalypse, but miraculously it's avoided.

"Kids, what are you doing?" I ask as Phoebe pulls the pillows out from behind my head and props them up against the headboard.

"I'm making you a seat so you could eat better of your food, because it might not make it to your tummy if you was laying down."

"That's very thoughtful. I wouldn't want my breakfast stuck in my throat all day."

"Yeah, I know." The way she's propped these pillows is similar to a coach airplane seat when they tell you to put the backs up fast.

"This is for you," Teddy says as he sets the tray onto my lap. There's the omelet and the French toast and a stack of pancakes with #1 Dad written across the top in blue frosting, though the script has been smeared by Teddy's pajama sleeve, so it could be misread as #7. Ana's propped two croissants into a white basket with a blue checkered towel, along with my favorite apricot jam, and it looks just like basket we shared in Paris the morning after our magical date. She thinks this was the night of our miracle, too.

"Happy Father's Day!" the kids say somewhat in unison, though Phoebe finishes with, "To the bestest Daddy ever, even of the all the pony daddies and pegasuses wizard daddies and cutest piglets, too."

"Well, that's stiff competition. Thank you, Princess." I put my arm around her and pull her close to give her a kiss on her head.

"I love you, Daddy." Phoebe wraps her arms around my neck, hugging so tight to my face that I can barely breathe, but I don't mind. Hell, how does Chester hold onto her shoulder with all this bouncing. Those monkey feet must have good skids.

"Orange juice and chocolate milk?" I ask, once loosened from her loving stronghold, though she remains wrapped around my neck as I look at the glasses. One was poured to overflowing and the other just under halfway. It reminds me of the day they handed out brainpower to me and Elliot.

"We didn't know if you were in a fruity mood or a milk mood," Teddy says.

"Well, I think I'm a bit of both today." As I look over the tray, I'm amazed with all the care and time they've put into it. I never expected any of this, but here it is—and it's beautiful.

"Did you really make all this for me?" I'm a bit choked up as I ask it. 

"Yes, we did," Ana says, stroking her belly as she moves from the doorway into the room and I can't help but smile. I watch her for a moment, the sunlight shimmering against the satin of her gown and illuminating her belly. If I had the camera right now I'd take a picture and then paint a portrait that I would hang in a place of prominence amidst all the others of her. But instead, I'll hang the picture of this moment in my memory, forever.

"I made you a sandwich omelet," Teddy says. "Because it was breakfast, so I had to cook something you could eat in the morning. And I know you love subs."

Ana laughs and I shake my head. Out of the mouths of babes.

"And look at the pickles!" I say. "I love pickles." I lean in and conspiratorially whisper to him, "Can't have a good sandwich without them."

Teddy smiles proudly. "See Phoebe, I tolded you." She sticks out her tongue in response and Chester backs her up with some ninja-rodent-I'm-wearing-monkey-pajamas looking move.

"I made you the Paris toast," Phoebe says as she plops down beside me, pointing to it. It certainly has a colorful array of toppings. "I put the animal cookies and the jelly beans and pop rocks all over it so it would be a more party breakfast."

"Well, it certainly is. And jelly beans and animal cookies with a sprinkle of pop rocks is very French."

"It is?" she asks, her blue eyes wide with awe.

"You mean you didn't know and you just came up with that all by yourself?" I ask, totally impressed.

She shrugs and smiles. "I guess I just know about Paris things."

"Show him your gifts," Ana says, smiling, and then heavily aided by my assistance, sits with us on the bed. To think there was a time when I never shared my bed with anyone. Now there are six of us (born and not yet born) and a diabolical hamster in it.

Speaking of diabolical hamsters...

"This one's from Chester and Boone!" Phoebe says, pointing to a card that I recognize right away as a Phoebe Grey original. It's got her purple glitter handprint on the cover and a turkey face drawn on her thumb and then off to the side I spot a little yellow pinkie print with big eyes and something red sticking out of his back.

"Is that Chester?" I ask.

"Yeah."

"What on his back?"

"It's a cape, because he and Boone are superheroes really, but nobody knows it when they sneaky dress like busy-ness peoples and have jobs."

"Sort of like me and Uncle Taylor, huh?"

"No, you have to wear glasses to be the real deal superhero." I take it she's been watching Superman. Either that, or talking to Dr. Eisenstat, the optometrist.

"To our brother," I read the card. "Have fun eating! Love, your brothers." Superheroes of little words.

"And they got you tickets for us to go to the Mariners game," Teddy says, pulling them out of the envelope.

"Big spenders!" I look to Ana and she giggles as she tucks her head onto my shoulder and snuggles into me.

"And I picked you the flowers from the garden we made," Phoebe says.

"I love them and you." I kiss her on the head.

"And I got you a bear, because it looked like you...and it's a bear," Teddy says, holding up a Teddy Bear in a three piece suit and Windsor knotted silver tie.

"He'll come with me to work. Andrea will never be able to tell us apart."

Phoebe giggles like that's the funniest thing she's ever heard and I tickle her into giggle oblivion.

"Teddy, hand him the wrapped package that's under the basket," Ana says and he pulls out a small box with a card that reads: To the Best Father Ever. I touch the words, needing to feel the press the pen left to prove that they're really there.

"This is best gift I could ever get," I say as my fingers continue to hold to the lettering.

"You haven't opened anything yet," Ana says and brushes my cheek with her fingertips.

"All I ever need is this." I take her hand and kiss it.

"Open it, Daddy," the kids say, excitedly, so I rush to remove the paper and find a framed poem of sorts, the unrhymed verses written by Ana's hand.

"I wrote it out for them," Ana says. "But, they told me what to say. From their hearts."

I look back down at the frame. The words look so beautiful scripted in gold pen.

"My father is..." I read aloud and those words alone cause my breath to catch. "My father is kind because he helps me save bugs out of spiderwebs. And he plants with me new flowers, and he never cares that his knees get dirty or the sun is hot. And he wears the purple crown I made him all day for his birthday last year and didn't get shy around the other daddies at all."

I smile at Phoebe. "Of course I don't get shy. Those other dads wish they had my crown." She giggles.

"My father is funny," I continue to read. "He makes me laugh so much when he tells Mommy she drives faster than her guardian angel can fly, or that we'll catch our death of cold without our sweaters even if it's summer, or that if we eat too much candy we'll get rotted up from the rooter to the tooter."

I look up. "None of that is funny, you know." Of course they all laugh. "Well, maybe the rooter and tooter part." The kids are in hysterics. And I thought I was a hopeless comedian.

"My father is good," I read. "Because he takes care of me when I'm sick and makes sure my toes are covered warm and he watches girl movies with me, even though he's a boy." I smile. "My father is patient because even if I don't know math or spelling he never makes me feel dumb, he just keeps helping me until I get it."

I look up at Teddy and smile.

"My father gives best hugs, makes sure our security peoples are watching over us good and always turns off his phone when he comes home." I sniff. "Everyone's got a father. But, we are extra special lucky we got the world's best dad."

"I love this," I say, holding it to my heart. That's where it will stay forever. "This is the best gift you could've given me." I touch the frame, reading the last three words again and again—world's best dad.

"Do you know how much you mean to me?" I pull my children closer, hugging them tight. Even Chester, though I think he's trying to get away or back up to find leverage for the attack.

"And you mean the world to us," Ana says and all I can do is kiss her. That's all I ever want to do, anyway.

"Eww, gross," Teddy says. "Why do you always kiss so much?"

"Because that's how the babies get into the carriages after the marriages and the tree sitting," Phoebe says.

"You're right, Phoebe," I say and kiss Ana again. "And don't you kiss anyone or sit in any trees until you're thirty."

Ana gasps suddenly and grabs her belly.

"What's wrong?" I ask, and I'm ready to spring into action. "You're not in labor are you?"

She shakes her head. "No, the babies are moving. Here, everyone feel."

We all put our hands on her stomach.

"Oh Ana," I say as they kick and squirm inside of her.

"They want to say Happy Daddy's Day, too," Phoebe says and I smile as Phoebe leans over and kisses her mother's moving belly—twice.

I get to thinking about what Ana said to me that next morning after that terrible night. She was so mad and I hated myself. I was a disheveled, hungover mess who had abandoned his wife and child. I was the worst of my mother and my father.

"Do you remember last night when you came home? Remember what you said?" she asked.

I stared at her, at a loss. I didn't remember anything. Though, I imagined whatever it was wasn't going to win me husband or father of the year.

"Well, you were right. I do choose this defenseless baby over you. That's what any loving parent does. That's what your mother should have done for you..."

She was so right. And though I was still scared and angry, something switched in me that I didn't fully realize then, but have processed over time. She isn't my mother. And she would never let me fuck up. And even if I did, my son would be okay because she was his mother. And he wouldn't turn out like me. Ever. And no matter how good of a father I am, I'm only one because first she was a mother.

"Oh no, we forgot the maple syrup," Ana says, and this breaks me out of my recall.

"I'll get it," Teddy says and jumps up. He's getting so big now. Our first little blip...

"No! Me, too!" Phoebe says and follows him out the door and down the hall. They're fighting for first place every step of the way.

"Don't run! You'll break your necks!" I yell out, but they run. They always keep running. Like they keep growing and learning and teaching me and putting gray hairs on my head. Taylor was right, everyday there's something new not to be ready for. And I used to think only the bad things could really catch you by surprise, but I've since learned, over and over again, the really good things can knock your socks off.

"Happy Father's Day," Ana says, brushing my hair as my cheek rests against her belly. "You're a wonderful father, you know that?"

"Thank you for making me one," I say and I find that I'm tearing up again.

"I didn't; you do that all by yourself. Everyday."

And I held to her that beautiful morning as I ate breakfast in bed with her and our kids, doing exactly what a husband and father should do.

In 2019 (the year this takes place) Christian's Birthday comes after Father's Day. It's next...