Saturday mornings were slow, sweet, and just a little bit messy.
Sunlight filtered through the gauzy curtains, laying warm streaks across the wooden floor. Clara, now a little over one and full of the fire and curiosity that defined her from the start, was building towers out of blocks with great ceremony — only to knock them down seconds later with gleeful abandon.
June watched her from the kitchen doorway, coffee mug cradled between her palms, her robe hanging open over one of Hank's old shirts. The floor was scattered with stuffed animals, socks, and a lone shoe that somehow always evaded the laundry bin. But she didn't mind.
This was the chaos she used to pray for.
Hank padded in behind her, barefoot and still sleepy-eyed, his hand slipping around her waist as he pressed a kiss to the curve of her shoulder.
"Block demolition is ahead of schedule," he murmured.
June grinned. "She's on her third rebuild. I think she's trying to outdo the city of Rome."
Clara turned at the sound of her parents' voices and beamed — the kind of pure, unfettered joy that made Hankdy chest tighten with awe every time.
"Dada!" she chirped, arms raised.
He scooped her up effortlessly, hoisting her high into the air until she squealed and kicked with laughter. June watched them with a hand on her belly, heart full.
Motherhood had changed her — not in the dramatic, earth-shattering way she'd expected, but like soft gold being woven through her bones. It had tempered her restlessness, deepened her patience, and taught her to hold wonder in the small things.
But it had also challenged her.
There were days the exhaustion ran deeper than her bones. Days when her body didn't feel like her own, when doubt crept in like fog and she wondered if she was doing any of it right.
That's when Hank anchored her.
He had always been solid, steady, her opposite in all the best ways. And now, as a father, he surprised her daily — tender in the quiet moments, silly in the loud ones, never afraid to kneel down and be fully present.
"Want to go for a walk?" June asked, setting her mug aside. "It's sunny. And she could use a run in the park."
"Let me get her shoes," Hank said, bouncing Clara in his arms. "Assuming we can find both."
June snorted. "Left one's in the laundry basket. Right's probably in the kitchen drawer. She's an innovator."
The park was glowing with mid-autumn light. Trees burned orange and gold, and leaves crunched underfoot like caramel paper. Clara toddled ahead on the path, gripping her mother's fingers with one hand and a slightly sticky pine cone in the other.
June leaned into Hank as they walked slowly behind her.
"Do you ever think about what it'll be like," she said quietly, "when she's older? Like, way older. Asking us real questions. Having opinions."
"All the time," he said. "And I panic every time."
She laughed, then turned more serious. "What if I'm not enough for her? What if I mess up something important?"
"You won't," he said immediately. "You're already more than enough."
"But what if—"
"June." He stopped walking, turning her to face him fully. "You show up. Every day. With your whole heart. She doesn't need perfect. She needs you."
Her throat caught at the tenderness in his voice. It still amazed her — how he could see her so clearly, even when she was tangled in self-doubt.
"I think we're doing okay," she whispered.
"I think we're doing better than okay."
Clara had found a squirrel and was chirping at it with absolute confidence. Hank scooped her up just before she attempted to follow it into the underbrush.
That night, after bath time and a lullaby June couldn't quite finish without tears, Clara finally fell asleep, one tiny fist clutching the sleeve of Hank's shirt.
They stood at the doorway to her room for a moment longer than usual, watching their daughter breathe deeply, cheeks pink and peaceful.
Back in their bedroom, June curled into Hank's side, tracing lazy patterns on his chest with her fingertips.
"I want to write her a letter," she said suddenly. "For when she's older."
"Like Ava's letters to Thomas?"
"Exactly. Not all the time. But maybe… on birthdays, or when something big happens. So she always knows how much we loved her, even when she forgets for a while."
Hank nodded. "Let's both do it."
They were quiet for a while, holding the weight of that idea between them — the future, wrapped in words, waiting to be read by the child they were raising with so much hope.
June sat up, kissed his temple, then whispered, "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For giving me this life. For seeing me even when I couldn't see myself. For giving me her."
Hank pulled her close again, voice rough with emotion. "Thank you for staying. For choosing this. For choosing me."
And there, beneath the soft halo of the bedside lamp, they held each other — not because life was perfect, but because they'd chosen to face its imperfections together, again and again.
As sleep began to pull them under,June whispered, "Let's write her letters tomorrow."
And in the quiet, Hank said, "Let's write her a hundred."