Across the aisle, Leilani had her earbuds in for most of the flight, one hand on her belly, the other sketching invisible patterns on the tray table with her finger. I don’t know what she was thinking, but she looked peaceful. Focused. Like she was already beginning to build the kind of world a baby might be lucky to land in.
As we taxied toward the terminal in Maui, Matt woke up, while Leilani leaned across the aisle and said quietly, “The doctors seemed really pleased. They said my readings looked great. We should have the full report in a few days.”
Cal smiled. “You’re amazing.”
“I know,” she said with a wink.
We dropped her off at her family’s house—Tutu and Kimo were already waiting out front, hooting and waving like they were greeting a local celebrity. Her father Nakoa was nowhere in sight.
Leilani blew us a kiss and shouted, “Give my love to the gang! Tell them we did something amazing today!”
I smiled and sighed. “We will. We did.”
It was dusk by the time we pulled into our driveway, but the house was glowing from the inside—light spilling from the windows, music faintly audible, chaotic chatter in full swing before we even opened the front door.
I took a breath.
And braced myself.
Because there they were. Our chosen family.
Angus was the first to spot us as we stepped inside the door. “They’re home! Hide the evidence!” he yelled, hurling a throw pillow over a bowl of cheese puffs for reasons unknown.
Mrs. Mulroney stood at the kitchen island, tumbler of whiskey in one hand, a suspiciously burned oven mitt in the other. “Don’t mind us,” she called. “We’ve just been having a respectful and deeply civil discussion about the miracle of conception. Also, I tried to cook dinner before deciding the job was better left to someone who can actually cook. Which would be you two.”
“Welcome back!” Rashida called from the armchair, where she was casually holding a small whiteboard labeledWomb Watch 2025with a very unhelpful doodle on it. “So? How did it go? Did you pass the test?”
“You can answer that while cooking,” Mrs. Mulroney butted in, steering me straight over to the kitchen counter. “I got as far as boiling the water before setting fire to an entire roll of parchment paper. Fortunately, Rashida knows how to use a fire blanket. Here’s an onion. Now start chopping.”
“I’m not chopping anything until you tell me why there’s a slipper in the microwave.”
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.”
From the couch, Angus came rushing over. “Did everything go okay?” he asked excitedly, peeking at us like we might spontaneously produce a baby from Cal’s pocket.
“It went great,” Cal said, starting toward the kitchen. “We’ll know more in a few days.”
“Bravo, gentlemen,” said Mr. Banks, slapping me and Cal on the back with surprising force. “You’ve done Mother Nature a great service. Although I’ve always said the birds and the bees was a misleading metaphor. Bees die after sex, and birds are notoriously bad at follow-through. Durham bulls on the other hand—they really know how to fill the tank. Talk about beasts of burden. Massive amounts of semen. So tell me, did they need to fetch an extra bucket and a mop for Cal here?”
I choked on my own saliva.
Mr. Banks pointed directly at Cal and turned to the room. “Trust me, I’ve seen this one’s tackle. And here I was thinking I was lucky the day I spotted the Loch Ness monster. Let me tell you, Nessie’s got nothing on our Cal.”
Cal blushed bright red.
Mrs. Mulroney raised her glass. “To Cal’s mighty tackle—may it stay baited, weighted, and never snap the line!”
“To babies!” Angus shouted.
“To buckets!” added Mr. Banks, completely delighted with himself.
“To whatever the hell just happened!” said Rashida, lifting a glass of wine.
Cal groaned and leaned on the counter. “Why are we talking about me ejaculating?”
“Oh, don’t be shy,” Mrs. Mulroney said. “It’s a beautiful thing. Life-affirming. Sticky as a date pudding, although unfortunately not as tasty.”
“Let’s change the subject,” I said, beginning to chop carrots and tomatoes with the speed of someone who knew the quickest way to stop anarchy in its tracks was to feed the masses. “Angus… Mr. Banks… how was your trip to the volcano the other day?”
