When I finished the story, Talon stood up as she did every time, walked over to the tree, and hugged it tight. “I love you, Grandpa Ollie,” she whispered, giving the bark a kiss.

“Again?” Lucy asked, speaking of Professor Oliver’s story, as she walked outside. She waddled over to Talon and me, with her full-grown pregnant stomach, and when she lowered herself to her chair, she sighed heavily as if she’d just run a full 5k.

“Again.” I smiled before I bent over to her and kissed her lips, and then her stomach.

“How was your nap, Mama?” Talon asked, filled to the brim with energy. It was amazing to watch her run around and grow excited. Years ago she fit in the palm of my hand. Years ago it wasn’t certain that she’d survive, and today, she was the definition of life.

“Nap was good,” Lucy replied, yawning, still tired.

Any day now, we’d be losing even more sleep each night.

I’d never been more excited and ready in my life.

“You need anything?” I asked. “Water? Juice? Five pizzas?”

She grinned and closed her eyes. “Just the sun for a little bit.”

The three of us sat outside for hours, soaking in the sunlight. It felt amazing, being surrounded by my family.

Family.

I somehow ended up with a family. Never in my life had I thought my life would end up like this—happy. The two girls who sat beside me were my world, and the little boy who would be here soon was already controlling my heartbeats.

When it was time to go prepare dinner, I helped Lucy out of her chair, and the minute she stood, we both paused for a moment.

“Mama, why did you pee your pants?” Talon asked, looking over at Lucy.

I cocked an eyebrow, realizing what had just happened. “Hospital?” I asked.

“Hospital,” she replied.

Everything was different than when Talon was born. My son was welcomed into the world at eight pounds and three ounces. He came into the world screaming, allowing us all to be aware of his strong lungs.

I often looked back on the happiest seconds of my life and wondered how a man like me became so blessed. There was the moment Talon was released from the NICU. The first time Professor Oliver called me son. The time Lucy first told me she loved me. The second when the adoption papers went through for Talon to officially become Lucy’s and my daughter. My wedding day. And now, as I held my handsome son for the first time in my arms.

Oliver James Russell.

Ollie for short.

We headed home one day after Ollie was born, and before Talon was off to bed that night, she walked over to her brother, who was sleeping in Lucy’s arms, and kissed his forehead. “I love you, baby Ollie,” she whispered, and my heart expanded more. It grew each day, being surrounded by my loves.

I carried Talon to her bed, knowing in the middle of the night she’d find herself sleeping between her mother and me. I welcomed her each night with a hug and a kiss, because I knew there would come a day when she wouldn’t be lying beside Lucy and me. I knew there would come a day when she was too old, and too cool to be near her parents. So whenever she wandered into our room, I held her tight and thanked the universe for having my daughter to show me what true love looked like.

After Talon was tucked in, I headed back to the nursery where Lucy was falling asleep in the gliding chair with Ollie still resting. I took him from her arms and laid him in his crib, gently kissing his forehead.

“Bedtime,” I whispered to my wife, gently kissing her cheek and helping her stand.

“Bedtime,” she muttered back, yawning as I helped her to our room. After I pulled back the covers on the bed and laid her down, I crawled into bed beside her and held her close to me.

Her lips brushed against my neck as she moved in closer. “Happy?” she yawned.

I kissed her forehead. “Happy,” I replied.

“I love you, my Graham Cracker,” she said softly seconds before she fell asleep.

“I love you, my Lucille,” I said, kissing her forehead.

As we lay there that night, I thought about our story. How she found me when I was lost, how she saved me when I needed her the most. How she forced me to stop pushing people away and proved to me that real love wasn’t something from fairytale books. She taught me that real love took time. Real love took work. Real love took communication. Real love only grew if those involved took the time to nurture it, to water it, to give it light.

Lucille Hope Russell was my love story, and I promised myself I’d spend the rest of my life being hers.

After all, maktub—it was already written.

We were destined to live happily ever after as our hearts floated near the stars and our feet remained on solid ground.

The End