Page 118 of Pieces of Us

My heart is continuously in my throat, and all my blood is in my groin whenever she appears wearing some slinky outfit, but that is her brand. She manages to make it look like a feminist statement that is sexy, classy and emboldening.

My eyes roam over her features, taking in her high, slicked back ponytail that is still jet-black. Her make-up is flawless as it always is on camera. Today, she is wearing bright red lipstick, which enhances her pouty lips, and I can see her breasts are fuller in the nightie she’s wearing, which causes my chest to swell with pride.

She’s only just stopped breastfeeding our youngest. We have Pierce, who’s eight, Isabelle, five, and the squirming monster currently in my arms, Dion, who’s eighteen months.

I watch her interview the cast of Charlie’s Angels. Everyone is either sitting or laying on the bed—Amity’s signature style—relaxed and having fun. This episode is a repeat, because my wife and our daughter are somewhere around here.

Earlier this morning, Pierce decided that it would be fun to practise his soccer skills inside the house, which led to him breaking our flat screen. To teach him a lesson, we took $50 from his piggy bank, which will go towards the $5 grand TV we’ll probably buy today.

‘That’s my mum,’ Pierce says again indignantly, turning an evil gaze on the guy who just snorted at him.

‘Sure it is mate, and I’m the Pope’s son.’ This idiot can’t be more than twenty-five, which is irritating because he’s old enough to know better than to bait an eight-year-old, but young enough to still get away with being a cunt.

‘It is. Dad, tell him it’s Mum.’ Pierce stomps his little feet in outrage.

I’m just about to redirect us away from this idiot when my wife struts confidently towards us. Like usual, people stop and gawk at her. She isn’t just mesmerising in looks, but she’s beautiful inside too. She has such a goodness and sweet innocence about her. You can’t help being drawn to it. I’ve never met a person who has a bad word to say about her.

Today, she’s looking extra delicious, having just met us here from her reformer pilates class. She’s in the tightest of tights and a black sports bra that shows off her ample cleavage. Her hair is the same as it is in the old interview playing, so it’s plain as day that she is indeed the same person who is on the screen.

As she saunters towards me, I see her lips twitch as if to say, ‘not this again’.

‘Mummy!’ Pierce hugs her waist. ‘This guy doesn’t believe you’re my mummy.’ I grin at the guts of my son to embarrass this poor bloke. When I turn to the lad, he’s gaping at my wife. He’s not just staring like a fish out of water, he’s floundering at the sight of her.

‘Baby boy, it’s okay. Remember what I told you? Not a lot of little boys or girls have mummies who are on TV.’ She leans down, giving the top of his head a kiss. As she dips down, the fucker’s eyes zone in on her breasts. My breasts.

I stare at him cooly. I’m possessive as fuck over my hot-as-fuck wife, and I hate the disrespect some people show her.

Amity is used to it by now, and has worked extremely hard with Dr April to ensure she doesn’t let trolls be a trigger. Of course, we’ve kept in contact with April for the last ten years, especially when Amity was pregnant and putting on weight. Thankfully, there weren't any huge setbacks.

I hate seeing comments about her weight online because she’s the epitome of perfection in every way. Plus, she is more than just her looks. Her success and multiple deals are a testament to that. Ami-tea is sold pretty much anywhere that serves or sells drinks, and her fashion line is in most major retailers around the world. She has even teamed up with other mental health advocates on living a healthy lifestyle, and mentors young women who are going through what she did.

‘I’m really sorry,’ the dickwad says sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck.

‘It’s fine. Have a nice day.’ Her dismissive cheerfulness makes him bolt.

‘Mummy threw up again,’ Isabelle says, rolling her eyes as she makes gagging sounds.

‘Eww.’

Amity takes our baby boy from my arms and smothers him with kisses. He giggles as if she’s the best thing since sliced bread, and I have to agree with him. I am in awe of how she juggles our crazy lives.

Years ago, a statement like that would send chills down my spine, but I know exactly why she’s thrown up. She pats her stomach gently, where our fourth child is currently growing. Satisfaction, desire and an animalistic possessiveness stroke my ego, knowing I fucked her so hard and good that another one stuck. We’re not exactly careful or using any birth control, so it’s no wonder she’s already pregnant, but can you blame me? It’s hard to keep my hands off her when she’s home.

She flashes me a saucy wink and leans over to kiss my neck. We haven’t told the kids yet as it’s still early.

‘First TV, then the movies,’ she declares, turning on her sneakers that squeak and padding down the aisles.

Pierce takes one more look at the TV screen. ‘Mum is so pretty, isn’t she, Daddy?’

‘She sure is, son. She’s beautiful in every way.’ I steer him towards his Mumma and her mini. I already know I’m in a fuck load of trouble with Izzy, who looks exactly like her stunning mum.

Looking at the family we created, I rub at my chest. This is the definition of what true contentment, peace, happiness and wholeness feels like. All my heartbeats beat out of my chest, breathing life into me every single day.

Amity

God, it feels good to be naked. At fifty thousand weeks pregnant, everything is insufferable.

Okay, so maybe not fifty thousand weeks, more like thirty-six, but still enough to make me feel like a cross between a cow and elephant.

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