Page 107 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

I grin. “Evie it is.”

“Want to give her a middle name?” she asks.

I nod slowly. “Only if you help me.”

She pauses, then speaks, her voice softer now. “How about Amelia?”

My breath catches.

“Not… for her,” she adds quickly. “For your mom.”

I nod, swallowing the lump that rises in my throat. “Yeah. That’s perfect.”

Evie Amelia King.

She already sounds like someone who’ll own a boardroom before age twelve.

***

Later that morning, Olivia bursts into the room with a balloon bouquet that could double as a jungle gym.

“Did you name her?” she demands, already snapping pictures like she’s on deadline for Vogue Baby Edition.

“Evie Amelia,” Margot says proudly.

Olivia nods in approval. “Good. Strong. Chic. Rolls off the tongue. I approve.”

We get FaceTime calls from Sophie and Priya. Sophie is in pajamas and wearing cat ears, sobbing a little. Priya is holding a tray of cookies like she’s trying to manifest them into the hospital through sheer willpower.

The room is full of laughter. Screens. Voices. People who’ve become more than our circle, they’re family. But eventually, the visitors quiet. The phones are tucked away. And it’s just the three of us again.

Evie asleep on Margot’s chest. Margot curled beside me, her fingers loosely tangled with mine. The lights are dimmed now. The hallway beyond our room has gone still. And for the first time in my life, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Margot shifts slightly, eyelids heavy, and murmurs, “Do you think we’ll be good at this?”

I glance down at our daughter, and then back at her. “I think we already are. Maybe not polished, but good.”

She nods, eyes fluttering shut again. “Polished sounds overrated anyway.”

I kiss the top of her head. Then Evie’s. Then rest my forehead between them both. The world outside might still be loud, complicated, unfinished, but right here, in this quiet hospital room with my girls, everything is exactly right.

58

MARGOT

The afternoon light slants across the living room in warm, honeyed streaks, catching on the edge of the baby blanket draped over the arm of the couch. Everything looks softer in this light, even the chaos. The half-folded laundry, the open box of diapers by the entryway, the burp cloth slung haphazardly over the back of a chair. Somehow it all feels right.

I shift Evie against my chest, adjusting the wrap holding her snugly against me. She lets out a tiny sigh, more breath than sound, her cheek nuzzled against the cotton of my shirt. Her body is so small it still doesn’t feel real, even after days of holding her like this. But she’s real. She’s here. And we’re home.

Grayson’s in the kitchen, clattering around with more enthusiasm than technique. He’s wearing sweatpants and a black t-shirt that’s slightly wrinkled and slightly damp from the bottle of dish soap he knocked over an hour ago. His hair is tousled, like he’s been running his fingers through it all day, which, judging by the way he’s been double-checking everything from pacifier sterilization to bottle temperature, he has.

“I’m making us grilled cheese,” he calls out like he’s announcing a Michelin-starred tasting menu.

I arch a brow from across the room. “You sure? The last time you tried, we had to open the windows for three hours.”

“That was a learning experience. I’ve evolved. Also, we have oat milk now, so I’m practically a suburban dad.”

I smile and gently bounce on the balls of my feet, feeling the weight of Evie anchor me to the moment. The wrap keeps her close, but her presence does something more, like tethering me to a version of myself I didn’t know I’d love this much.

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