They were late getting back on a Friday night from Kurt's new show. Rachel and Tom hadn't planned on spending so much time at the after party, but they just couldn't resist dancing together and enjoying the good food and company.

"Do you have enough cash? " she asked him in the cab on the way home. Kelea had turned thirteen and that night was her very first babysitting job. Julie Coldstream had asked if she could take care of their five-year-old daughter, Amélie. "She's so sweet and easy to take care of, and they know each other," Julie said.

It made perfect sense, though both of them knew Amélie wasn't that sweet all of the time. "Headstrong," was how an early babysitter once described her.

"Do you think we'll owe Kelea combat pay?" Tom joked.

"Of course not," Rachel replied. "I gave Amélie the usual talk." That talk had become a family tradition. "Remember who you are," Rachel and Tom would tell her. "Remember who you represent." It proved surprisingly effective. Her pre-school and kindergarten teachers, while confirming Amélie's headstrong tendencies, also consistently remarked on how well-behaved she was in general, and how well she got along with the other children. Rachel didn't want her daughter to experience the isolation she had endured as a child, and, it turned out, that fear was unfounded. She was often invited to sleepovers and play dates with friends, much to Rachel's relief. Part of Rachel's anxiety lay in the fact that Amélie was practically a carbon copy of her, though she did need glasses around age four. "Maybe she is mine, after all," Tom quipped. She was petite, even for a five-year-old, with her mother's dark hair, eyes, and strong Semitic nose. Headstrong tendencies aside, Amélie was like both her parents in being kind and warm-hearted. She liked gloating over the fact that their cat, Caruso, preferred snuggling with her. "That's 'cause I give him the best rubs," she declared.

"I've got enough cash," Tom said, and Rachel smiled, settling back in the seat. The thought of Kelea taking care of her daughter was comforting to both her and her husband. The girl had become attached to them, and Daniel and Julie were among some of their closest friends. She had grown into a tall, beautiful young woman. There was still a little gangliness, but she otherwise carried herself well. Her parents joked about the fact that she seemed to show little talent for painting or drawing, but her academic interests soon became very clear. Kelea was a voracious reader. Rachel had agreed to watch her for Daniel and Julie one Saturday morning soon after the wedding, and found she could read at a surprisingly advanced level. In her little backpack was a copy of The Wind in the Willows, and she asked Rachel to sit and read with her. She had mastered the basics and was able to read much of it out loud without any trouble. Of course, her vocabulary was limited, and Rachel soon realized Kelea needed her more to supply definitions and/or pronunciations of unfamiliar words and to explain some concepts, than to actually read to her. She was flooded with familiar warmth, and gazed fondly at the girl, silently thanking him.

It soon became clear Kelea had a gift for writing. She was eight when Amélie was born, and on her first visit after they brought the baby home, presented Rachel and Tom with a poem she had written for the occasion. They had it framed and placed on a wall in the nursery. The two children developed a bond from the very beginning. Kelea always volunteered to help change the baby's diapers when she was over, and seemed to be the best at getting her to stop crying. When Amélie was three, during a dinner party at their apartment, Rachel went looking for the two of them and found the girls sitting quietly on Amélie's bed, Kelea reading Dr Seuss out loud. They were giggling. At first glance, they could have passed for sisters.

"Tom?" Rachel asked, snuggling next to him in the cab.

"Yes?" His fingers intertwined with hers.

"I don't think I've ever felt this content in my life."

It was true. Professionally, Rachel was on a roll, coming off winning the Tony for Lead Actress in a Musical for her portrayal of Sally Jones in Tom's musical Mount Olympus Blues, which they had gotten produced after the acclaimed Don't Look Back. At the end of the run, she and Tom decided it was time, and Amélie was born. She was almost immediately offered a role in a new play by an earlier NYADA graduate of the composer program, Ivan Powell. At first Rachel balked over concerns about Amélie's care, but Tom, who was getting hefty residuals over London productions of Don't Look Back and Mount Olympus Blues, asked if she'd mind if he took a break at home with their daughter and recharged his batteries. "Besides," he told her, "I can't have my wife turn down the opportunity to work with Ivan Powell." She garnered a Tony nomination for Powell's play The Poisoned Tree, and was the female lead for its three year run. By that time she was ready for a break, and Tom began seriously working on a new project (at home) for her, and a new genre for him—opera. So, she and her husband were able to spend the last two years at home with their daughter. During the last year, Rachel did spend a few weeks in LA singing on Mercedes's new album, No Back Row Belter. She took Amélie with her so the grandparents could get to see their granddaughter, and the album photographer caught a beautiful moment in the control booth, with Amélie's grandmother holding her up so she could see her mother and Mercedes singing together in the other room. The photograph appeared in the CD booklet, and Rolling Stone published it in an article on the album. They had it framed and hung it in the living room.

She was content in her marriage. The first three years had been a whirlwind of creative activity with Tom, late nights rehearsing and preparing the musicals, celebrating the completion of a song with a bottle of good scotch, cooking meals for each other, going to the theater. She taught him how to handle the paparazzi, and marveled at his calm demeanor when asked stupid questions, such as, how did he feel about Rachel keeping her last name? "Rachel Berry is the name of the woman I fell in love with," he had replied without hesitation the first time, "Why would I want her to change it?" After eight years, any romantic misconceptions about marriage had been pretty much erased. Fortunately, the reality was just fine with her. She honestly could not remember a serious fight, nor did they ever go to bed angry. Of course, the fact both were neat freaks led to some early disagreements over how each's neatness could be expressed. For example, Tom simply couldn't function if the record collection wasn't organized a particular way, and Rachel, whose mind screamed at the thought of filing Jethro Tull albums under "J", but Joni Mitchell albums under "M", gave in to his wishes, since he put up with her need to organize socks in drawers by color. From these kinds of small compromises grew a lasting respect and even affection for each other's quirks. They refused to let anything fester. In fact, their personal relationship mirrored their solid professional partnership. The entertainment press called them "Foberry", but found them boring, for the most part. Which was fine with Tom and Rachel, who took advantage of that and enjoyed their love affair under the radar and the scandal sheets.

And then there was their daughter. When they decided to get pregnant, Rachel went through a period of manic anxiety. Tom once joked that the owners of the small local bookstore they frequented were able to finance their son's college education on the baby books she purchased. Of course, what she discovered was, these books were often filled with contradictory advice, which made her new mother anxiety even worse. At the end of three months, Tom snapped. Rachel came home from an errand to find all of the books gone, the shelf space now taken up by a series of antique teddy bears.

"We are going to follow your instincts from now on," he declared, steadfast in the face of her epic freak out.

"My instincts?" she asked, after taking a breath and sitting on the couch. Despite her anxiety, her first instinct was to trust him.

"Yes, your instincts. First things first: you don't need those ten books about recommended diets for pregnant women."

"I don't?" To be honest, none of them seemed to work. Her obstetrician had started complaining about her lack of weight gain. When Rachel indignantly showed her the list of resources she had compiled, she just smiled, and insisted she eat better. "Maybe I need a better-informed obstetrician" she had huffed to Tom, who wisely said nothing at the time.

"No, you don't. Listen." He went into the kitchen and poured her a glass of milk. "Looks good, doesn't it?"

"Yes, but—"

"No buts. It looks good to you because your body and our baby need it." He handed it to her and she sipped eagerly.

"But I also need all the cream puffs at Merton's bakery," she wailed.

"That's not your instincts talking," he said, kissing her cheek. "That's your sweet tooth." She had to laugh because it was true.

"Baby, your instincts are telling you to gain weight, so give in, but let your head rule over the sweet tooth. I'm almost done making lunch. Tell me what you think. We're having lean roast beef and swiss sandwiches on whole grain bread, with spinach instead of lettuce, tomatoes, kosher pickles and leftover pasta salad. He paused, because he could tell her mouth was watering. "You see baby, those are your instincts at work." He didn't mention that he had actually bought her a cream puff while she was gone, for dessert.

"What else are my instincts telling me?" she asked, smiling now that her anxiety was easing, loving how her husband was engaged like this.

"They aren't saying anything else now, other than to get you fed," he said, "But afterwards you are going to want to take a nice walk with me."

"Before my nap?" Taking naps while pregnant was the best.

"Rachel, you told me how much better you felt after your nap if you walked first. Remember?" Good God, he was adorable.

He worshiped the changes in her body, and she never felt self conscious about them at all. She always looked forward to him massaging her belly at night with cream to prevent stretch marks, which he murmured probably wasn't necessary because her instincts told her to eat the right things to keep her skin elastic, but he loved caressing her, and it felt so comforting and sensual, and their baby always responded with gentle hello kicks for him. She even loved when the baby slept, it made her feel powerful and protective, and capable. And her own dreams of floating in a warm ocean eased the anxiety, making her pregnancy, even with its secondary discomforts, some of the happiest months of her life.

Amélie was born at 1 PM on a Tuesday, and Tom was with her. She didn't need an epidural because she had gained enough weight and kept fit and rested, and at one point it hurt such that she wondered how any human mother had ever survived giving birth, but with absolute concentration on the task at hand, and with Tom's soft words of encouragement, they welcomed their daughter into the world. Tom went on for days talking about how it felt to cut the cord, marveling at its toughness, and the densely-packed blood vessels inside, like fibers inside an electrical cable. She treasured the memory of Amélie suckling earnestly for the first time, and the three of them, huddled quietly together, their little family, and Tom watching over her until she finally slept, exhausted. The next day Tom showed up at the hospital to take them home, after having first burst into the fanciest baby shop in Manhattan, demanding the pinkest onesie they had for his new daughter. He tipped the cab driver handsomely for having to endure both his and Rachel's demands he be careful driving on the way home. They both followed their instincts and brought their daughter to bed with them, perfectly safe, and so all Rachel had to do was reach over and feed her at night, then fall back to sleep. She did need to be changed however, and they traded off that duty, and both managed to get enough rest to confound some of their more hollow-eyed friends with young children. Tom enjoyed carrying her draped over his forearm, her little head resting in the crook of his elbow, often sound asleep, drooling on his sleeve. He liked to say this freed up his other hand for a beer. And Rachel learned how to nurse Amélie in public so discreetly that people wondered if she ever fed her child.

There was never a shortage of people willing to tell them how to raise their child, but, interestingly, almost none of it was useful. It seemed the only really useful guidance had to come from paying attention to Amélie's personality and their own sense of the Amélie/Tom/Rachel dynamic. It didn't take long for Rachel and Tom to work out their own method. They gauged its success by how many times people approached them to remark on how well-behaved and polite their little girl was when out and about. It meant sometimes enduring her letting off steam at home and only in front of them. It bore good fruit, with Amélie becoming as sweet and unspoiled at home as she was in public.

It was only natural that Rachel would think sometimes about what having children with Finn would have been like in comparison. But he had now been dead thirteen years, and over time her impressions of him, while still strong, came with a softer, more idealized focus. So her thoughts about having Finn's children were more like wistful daydreams, things to muse over on a hot summer's day at the beach, a chance to reconnect to him, to let him know she loved him still, without ever diminishing the joy and satisfaction of her life.

On one of their bookshelves was a small framed picture Artie had taken of her and Finn. It was in the fall of their senior year—golden yellow and red leaves everywhere—and he caught them from behind, sitting closely together on a park bench, bundled up, he in his puffy down vest and her in that red coat and black hat he loved, her hair in pigtails, each leaning inwards toward the other. Finn had told her once that the picture captured their essence somehow, in one exquisite moment. Before she and Tom were married, Rachel decided she would like one picture of them displayed in their home. She approached Tom apprehensively; wondering if that might be more than he would be comfortable with. He said nothing at first, looking into her eyes for what seemed like an eternity, until the answer became clear. He asked to see the photograph she had in mind. She produced Artie's picture, and he stared at it intently for some time, slowly starting to nod as a soft smile spread across his face. "Yeah," he said, "I like this one." Rachel never asked him what went through his mind, and he never offered to tell her. She worried she had hurt him somehow, and that he had to struggle getting his love for her to finally overcome it. Eight years later, she got her answer.

She was in the hall passing the study when she heard Amélie ask her father a question.

"Daddy, who is that sitting with Mommy?"

She paused to listen.

"That is your Uncle Finn."

"I have an Uncle Finn?"

"Yes. He's your Uncle Kurt's brother."

"Where is he? I've never met him."

She heard him pick her up and sit her on his lap.

"Uncle Finn went to heaven before you were born, sweetie. Before I even met Mommy, so I never met him either."

"He sits with Mommy like you do, at the park."

Rachel felt a catch in her throat, as her husband paused before answering:

"That's because he loved Mommy very much, like I do."

"Then I love Uncle Finn, too!" She jumped from his lap and came out into the hall, gave her mother a wave, and disappeared into her room. Rachel poked her head into the study, catching Tom's wide, serene smile, and knew he had been truly good, all those years ago.

"Hey," she said softly, catching his attention. The smile remained in place.

"We've done good with her," he said.

Kelea was sitting at the kitchen table, working on her laptop when they got home.

"Sorry we're so late, " Rachel said, taking off her coat. "We got caught up talking with our friends, and I forgot to text you."

"That's okay." The girl began packing up. "We had a great time watching those old Warner Brothers cartoons you have, and I've been working on my story for school." She gave them a curious look. "You know, I think those cartoons were intended more for adults than kids."

Tom chuckled. "Such a perceptive child." He accompanied Kelea out the door after she gave Rachel a hug, and said, "I'll be back." The cab was waiting, and he would escort her home.

In the cab he paid her, and, as she put the money in her wallet, Kelea turned to him.

"I'd like to be her regular babysitter," she said, "If that's okay."

"As long as it's not a school night, we'd love to have you look after Amélie. She loves you."

"We have a connection," Kelea said.

"Connection?"

Her dark, almost black eyes seemed to bore into him for a moment, and she gave him an enigmatic smile.

"Yeah. I think she and I are becoming Foghorn Leghorn freaks."

Tom laughed. "Yeah, I bet. She does a pretty good imitation of Henry The Chickenhawk, right?" He and Amélie watched the old classic cartoons all of the time. "It beats her playing video games," he told Rachel when she wondered if maybe they could try and expand their entertainment horizons.

"My dad showed me some old Laurel and Hardy movies last weekend. Would it be okay if we watched them next time? I know Rachel doesn't want her playing video games, and—" She gave him a conspiratorial wink. "—she isn't into those musicals much."

"I know," Tom said, winking back. He felt her hand on his arm.

"Amélie is special. You and Rachel are special." She was looking at him with old eyes and that smile that spooked Rachel, and he felt the hair on his head stand up.

He nodded and smiled back, settling into his seat as the girl began talking about school and her writing, and how she didn't think her English teacher was quite ready for her story and her mom wasn't sure if she should submit it for that reason, but all he could think about was the now warm feeling of certainty coming over him, that this girl and his family had more than a coincidental connection, and this connectedness involved more than just Finn, but a complex interweaving of karma and souls and sacrifice and loves, vast, epic and pure, like a myriad of ripples colliding on the surface of a lake.

His love for his wife and daughter gave him clarity, a fleeting comprehension of being part of a vast, expanding lattice of love that spanned years, maybe even centuries. He had no way of sorting all of it out, so he stopped trying, and, at that moment, his eyes and the girl's met, and for an instant, one blessed instant, everything became revealed.