“It is Dale,” she confirms. “You should probably answer him.”
I sigh heavily and finally grab my phone to see five missed calls, twelve messages, and three voice notes.
Then one photo of what appears to be an ice sculpture shaped like my face.
I close my eyes briefly. “He’s organising my birthday party like it’s a royal wedding.”
Wynter snorts beside me. “He’s excited.”
“He’s mentally unstable.”
Sebastian gasps dramatically. “Can I have a huge birthday party?”
“You already had one.”
“No, but I want fireworks.”
“You’re eight.”
“Exactly.”
Wynter laughs harder against my shoulder while I open Dale’s latest message.
Dale: Lucy says she’s bringing homemade sausage rolls and threatening bodily harm if catering isn’t good enough.
Another follows immediately.
Dale: Also Alec keeps calling me son and it’s making me emotional.
A third message appears.
Dale: Why does her family keep hugging people???
I shake my head slowly.
“What?” Wynter asks.
“Your family’s traumatising Dale.”
“That sounds healthy for him.”
I glance back towards the beach house behind us. The patio doors stand open, with tiny baby clothes drying in the evening heat. There are toys scattered across the living room and a half-finished bottle on the coffee table.
Tiny socks and mittens are absolutely everywhere, along with breast pads and muslin cloths. It’s a complete mess, just like the apartment back in London.
And somehow . . .
I love every single second of it.
Because six months ago, my apartment was silent. Cold. Controlled.
Now, Sebastian barges into our bedroom every Saturday morning to watch television with us. Lucy criticises my parenting daily over video calls, Alec sends me barbecue recipes I’ll never use, and Wynter leaves fairy lights switched on in every room we enter.
And our daughter . . .
Christ.
Annie wraps her tiny fingers around mine like I’m her entire world. Just like her namesake did.