JACKSON

I'm not sure what to do without April by my side.

Of course, I've been without her before. Plenty of times. But now, it's different. Since the accident, I haven't left her someplace unfamiliar without being there to guide her. Staying alone at the house is different. Now, she's in a new place full of strangers, and I can't help but worry.

I glance in the rearview mirror back at Peyton in her car seat, unbuckled because we aren't moving. She has one hand in her mouth, banging her feet against the seat, staring out the window at who-knows-what.

"Whatcha thinkin', P?" I say, catching her attention.

Her face erupts in a wide grin, eyes crinkling like April's do. "Da," she says, through her spitty hand.

"Thinkin' about me?" I say, raising my eyebrows. "That's so nice."

"Da da da da da," she babbles, banging her feet harder. She takes her wet hand out of her mouth and reaches towards me, stretching her fingers wide. "Baba," she says.

"I don't have a baba on me," I say. "I have some Puffs, though. I think they're banana flavored. Is that alright with you?"

She shrieks happily when I open the container and hand it back, leaving her to her own devices as she munches happily on the baby snack. I let out a long sigh as I watch her, and she gives me a multiple-toothed grin.

"Mama," she says, squinting happily.

"Who you callin' mama," I say, reaching to squeeze her chunky calf. She blows a raspberry when I do that, still grinning. "I ain't yo mama."

"Mama!" she screeches, throwing her head back.

I shake my head with amusement, chin resting in one hand. "Well, I'm thinking about her, too," I say, and the baby watches me intently while still gnawing open-mouthed on the Puffs. "You think she's doing okay in there?"

Peyton doesn't respond. She just keeps chewing, getting her face and hands all messy. She blinks her aqua eyes at me with those mile-long eyelashes, and I sigh again.

"You think we should've stayed with her?" I close my eyes for a moment. "She asked us to leave, though. She wanted to do it by herself." I massage my temples with one hand. "But how do we know if she was ready?"

I shrug and look at the clock to see how much time has passed, hoping that the hour is almost up. I'm disappointed to see that it's barely been fifteen minutes, though it seems like an eternity has gone by.

Interrupting my thoughts, Peyton winds back and chucks the container of Puffs across the car so it lands in the open trunk, then squeals with delight at what she's done.

"That was a little much, don't you think?" I ask, watching her as she turns around to look where they landed. She stands on her knees in the car seat and proceeds to climb out, monkeying around the back seat and exploring every corner.

She's obviously antsy like I am, and we could go somewhere to let off steam. I'm sure there's a playground nearby that she'd love. But I can't bring myself to leave this parking lot. I feel far enough from April as it is, and going further would only make things worse. What if she needs me? What if there's an emergency?

"Sorry, P," I say, though she doesn't seem disappointed. The back seat is enough of a jungle gym for her. "Doesn't look like we're going anywhere."

I turn on some music and keep an eye on the baby so she doesn't get too rowdy, and wait as the minutes slowly tick by. I wonder how April is feeling in there; if she's confident or staying quiet. I can't picture her in a therapy setting, because it's not something either of us have done before. She's in uncharted territory, all on her own.

But it's what she wanted. I have to keep reminding myself of that. I know she can't lean on me forever, not for everything, and she had to take the first step sometime. It's just happening so fast. I don't want her to get overwhelmed and throw in the towel.

When it's five minutes until the hour, I get out and carry Peyton face-forward on my chest, one arm under her butt to act as a seat.

"Ready to go get your mama?" I ask, securing my other arm around her middle like a seatbelt. "Who's ready to see Mama?"

She buzzes her lips and laughs, and I plant a big kiss on the top of her head. I breathe her in for a moment, closing my eyes while standing just outside the community center doors, and give her a squeeze. I'm not a godly man by any means - I respect religion for my wife's sake - but when Peyton was born, I couldn't help but think that there had to be a higher power somewhere. She was just too perfect. And she still is. She keeps getting better and better. And now, we're going to have another one.

I don't think I've fully wrapped my head around it yet, that there will be two babies in our house before long. There's been so much going on with April's accident and recovery, that those thoughts haven't taken a front seat. I feel guilty, having paid our second child hardly any attention, when that's all I did for Peyton while she was inside April's belly. Before April was even showing, I'd lie next to her at night and talk to the fetus through a toilet paper tube. And now, that fetus is a beautiful, squishy baby that's wiggling in my arms, talking to me in gibberish.

It's hard to know what April is comfortable with and what she's not, though. I don't want to make a huge deal out of the new baby if that's not what she wants. But isn't a huge deal what the baby deserves? It's all so confusing, and so difficult to talk about. I hate fighting with her, but sometimes it seems we speak two different languages and can't see eye-to-eye.

As I walk through the automatic doors of the building, I let myself wonder if the new baby will be a boy or a girl. April has always wanted two boys and a girl, but I think this one will be our last. I'm not sure if she could handle more.

I'm not a worrier; I usually leave that up to her, but I'd be inhuman if I wasn't worrying about how all of this will play out. April still isn't confident in her abilities as a blind person, and I have no way of knowing where she'll be in six months when the baby arrives. Will I be capable of watching two little ones under two at that point?

Right now, the thought exhausts me. Peyton isn't exactly a hard child, but she has her difficult moments that leave me harried, stressed, and feeling like I might go gray early. I assume those moments will only increase as she grows into toddlerhood, and imagining them alongside a fragile, sensitive newborn almost makes me fall to the ground on the spot.

It's exactly what we wanted - a big family with kids close in age. But we never knew it would come to fruition quite like this. It's not that I don't want it anymore - I'd create as many beautiful kids with April as she'd allow. But it's still terrifying. I'd like to think I'm a good dad; I know everything about Peyton and how to take care of her, especially since April has been incapacitated. But the thought alone of having two tiny ones at once is enough to send me reeling.

As we get closer to the entrance, I force myself to stop thinking and direct my mind towards April. My stomach is jittery as I adjust the baby and place her on my hip, and she reaches to first tug on my earlobe, then run her soft hand over the stubble on my face.

"Where's Mama?" I ask her, and she sticks her fingers in my mouth. "Hey!" I say, then pretend to eat them, which cracks her up. She lets out a long, shrill screech that grabs the attention of a few passers-by, who look over and smile.

I peek through the rectangular window of the door and see the group leader, Cassandra, talking to April individually as everyone else gets up to leave. As I look around, I notice service dogs and white canes, some people wearing dark sunglasses, most of them smiling. I hold the door open for those leaving and get thanked profusely. I'm too loud when I say 'you're welcome' and that makes me feel like an ass. Just because they can't see doesn't mean they can't hear. I should know better.

It takes April a bit longer to find her way to the door. After Cassandra is finished talking, she guides her by the elbow to where I'm standing and gives me a cordial, polite smile.

"Thanks for coming today, April," she says. "I enjoyed having you. I hope we'll see you back in a week?"

"I plan on it," April says.

"Good. And you'll look into those resources I told you about," she says.

"Yes," April says, and I realize she's holding a few brochures. I scrunch my eyebrows and wonder why a support group for blind people wouldn't have thought ahead and put the information on tape, or something. How the hell would she read that if she didn't have me?

"Great. Well, have a wonderful night."

She walks away and I rest an arm on April's lower back, studying her face for any telltale signs of how she might be feeling. I rub circles over her spine while keeping the baby upright on the opposite hip, and she reciprocates and winds an arm around my back, too. I pull her close because it feels good, and drop a kiss to her floral-scented hair.

"You good, babe?" I ask, smoothing the nonexistent frizz down.

She nods while plucking at my shirt absentmindedly. I watch her face for a moment without her knowing, then lead us to the car. I open the passenger's side first, then buckle Peyton in to her car seat as she finds spilled Puffs from earlier and pops them in her mouth.

"Me and Peanut were having a ball out here," I say, clicking the buckle. "She was climbin' all over everything. Had a snack, too."

"That's good," April says, a bit reserved.

"Yeah," I say, then get comfortable with both hands on the wheel. I lick my lips and shift the car into gear, wondering how I should go about asking what I'm wondering about. "She was telling me about her birthday party. Turns out, she wants princess theme."

"Oh," April says, chin resting on her closed fist as she leans on the armrest.

I pull out of the parking space and start to drive, keeping the music off so I won't have an excuse not to talk. I want to get it out of her - how the session went - but I don't want her to feel rushed or pressured to share if she doesn't want to.

So, I drive a couple miles towards home before clearing my throat and starting in. "So…" I say, tapping my thumbs on the wheel. "All in all, how did it go? How'd you feel?"

She waits a while before answering, but I can tell she's going to. She sits up from where she'd been leaning against the door and rests with her palms open on her lap, head hanging low.

"Good," she says. "Mostly."

"Well, that's good," I say. "Did you feel alright about going by yourself?"

She nods. "Yeah. No one else had anyone with them."

"Cool," I say, though there's so much more I want to fill this space with. "What kind of stuff did you guys talk about? I saw Cassandra pulled you aside at the end there."

She sighs and says, "Yeah. Because I'm new, she wanted to get me acclimated, I guess. She recommended a mobility instructor, you know, someone who can teach me how to get around. She was talking about white canes and seeing-eye dogs. And she told me about someone who can teach me Braille, when I'm ready."

"That's awesome," I say, chest feeling much lighter than it did before she stepped into that room. This sounds like it was the best thing that could've happened for her.

"Yeah," she says, though she doesn't sound quite as thrilled.

I look over when we pull into the driveway and find her lips pursed, like she's trying to hold back tears. I open my mouth to say something but second-guess myself, closing it and turning away to get Peyton from the back.

The baby is calmer now, but cranky because she's hungry for dinner. She fusses in my arms while I open April's door and guide her to the house with a hand securely rested on her tricep. We don't say anything. I just unlock the door, get us inside and situated, and start cooking dinner with Peyton in her high chair and April sitting at the kitchen table looking uncomfortable and somewhat lost.

"You wanna take your shoes off?" I ask, glancing over my shoulder. "Also, does breakfast for dinner sound okay?"

"Sure," she says, though I'm not positive what question she's answering.

I furrow my eyebrows and turn to look at her with her elbows on her knees, leaning forward as she stares at the floor, unseeing. Her eyes are half-lidded, but I don't know if that's purposeful or not.

"Here," I say, and kneel in front of her. I quickly and carefully unlace her shoes, gently cupping the heel to get them off her small feet. I squeeze the arches once she's only in socks, then give her kneecap a casual kiss. "There. Better?"

"Yeah," she says, but her heart isn't in it.

I stand to my full height, still studying her. Something isn't right. "Baby, you okay?" I ask, touching her shoulder.

She doesn't respond at first; she doesn't even open her mouth. She closes her eyes, though, and covers her face with her hands, and that's enough of an answer in itself. Though, I can't be sure what the issue is until she lets me in.

"What…" she whimpers, then clears her throat to try and make her voice stronger. All I can do is watch her and wait for the answer, whatever it may be. "What if I'm never ready?"

I frown and try to decipher what she means, backtracking what she might be referencing. I can't seem to remember, though, which makes me feel guilty.

"I'm sorry, honey," I say. "But what do you mean?"

"I mean," she says. "That I'm not ready for all this. All…" She gestures with her arms, widening them out in a rounded shape. "All these things. The cane, the dog, the Braille. This isn't the life I wanted."

She starts crying, but I don't move to comfort her. Instead, I stay hovering where I am and wonder how many times we've gone over this. I'm aware that it can't be an easy thing to stomach, but I've done everything in my power to make her new life the best it can be. And when she says stuff like that, it seems like she's throwing my hard work back in my face.

"Well," I say, trying not to sound terse. "It's the life you have, though."

She rips her hands away and looks at me with tear-stained cheeks, shimmering in the light of the kitchen. She wipes her nose with the back of her hand and an errant sob breaks loose, causing her entire top half to rattle.

"God, Jackson," she hiccups, still trying to catch her breath. "You don't get it at all."

"What?" I snap. "What don't I get?'

"You can't-"

"I've tried to do everything right in the past few months. And nothing is good enough for you. Nothing, ever! I don't know what I'm supposed to say anymore, because everything that comes out of my mouth is wrong. According to you."

My words surprise even myself. I wasn't consciously aware I was feeling these things, but judging by how easily they came out, they'd been festering for a while. My mouth tastes sour after they pass my lips, and my skin is hot.

"You don't get to be mad about this," she says, still sitting while I stand.

I don't like the power dynamic that puts between us; I wish she'd get up, too. As of right now, it feels like I'm shouting down into her face. I'm shouting into my disabled wife's face, angry that she's traumatized from being blinded by acid thrown in her face. What kind of monster am I?

"I'm allowed to be upset!" she continues, jabbing herself in the chest with one rickety finger. "For five fucking minutes, I'm allowed to cry without you telling me that 'this is my life now.' You think I don't know, Jackson? I don't need you reminding me."

"You still have people who love you," I say, trying to lower my voice. There's nothing I hate more than fighting with her - getting angrier and angrier while she devolves into tears. "You still have me and P. And your family, and everyone at the hospital."

"I know!" she shrieks, and I notice her hands are shaking. "But that doesn't change the fact that I went blind without any say in the matter. It just happened. One stupid day, out of the blue. You don't know how it feels to live in a completely different world than everyone else. To have to learn how to read again, to use a cane. I am allowed to grieve everything I lost that day, Jackson."

"I know…" I say, shaking my head slightly. "That's not what I'm saying."

"And I don't mean to be biting your head off all the time," she says. "But you can't fix me. And you keep trying. With all the sweet things you say, buying me the piano, babying me. You can't cushion me forever. Just once, can you agree with me that this just fucking sucks?"

My mouth falls open, waiting for the words that won't come. I'm not sure how to fill in the blank, because I don't want to say something wrong.

"What?" she says, noticing my silence.

"I don't know," I say.

"It's something," she retorts.

I let out a long breath as my throat clogs up. I rub my eyes roughly and glance at the baby, who's privy to all this. She meets my eyes when I look over, but only for a fleeting second. After, she returns to the diced-up kiwi on her high chair tray and doesn't give us another thought.

"I don't know how to treat you sometimes," I say, finally admitting it aloud. "You need my help, but then you don't want it. I don't want to baby you, but you can't do certain things on your own. You say these negative, depressing things, and I only counteract them because I don't want you to hate your life. I… I don't know. It's not that I don't know you, but sometimes I don't recognize you. And I'm still getting used to it. So… I'm sorry."

Now, she takes a turn being quiet. She chews on the inside of her cheek and tucks her hair behind her ears, taking her time with a response.

"Well, I feel the same way," she says. "Most of the time, I don't know myself either."

"It's not that," I say. "I'll always know you. From that very first day, in the bookstore. And I gave you shit. That's still us. That's still you."

Her shoulders deflate when she asks, "Is it?"

"Yes," I insist. "When you introduced yourself in that stupid pathology class, I knew I was gonna marry you. Right then, seriously. I knew."

A ghost of a smile finds its way to her lips, and I caress her face softly. She doesn't flinch.

"I haven't looked back since," I say.

"So, what are you trying to say?" she asks.

I try and piece the words together, though they've never come easily for me. Articulation is her thing, not mine. "I don't want anyone but you," I say. "Seeing or not, resentful or not. I just need to know that you want the same thing."

Her whole expression changes - expands and opens. "Why would I want anything else?" she says.

"I don't know," I say. "I never do anything right. You said so yourself."

"Neither do I," she says. "I know I can be horrible to you." She reaches and holds my face, stroking my skin with both thumbs. "But it's us, boo."

My face warms at the use of that nickname. It used to be one that she threw into everyday sentences, but I haven't heard it in ages. It reminds me of how things used to be, so much easier though we hadn't known it. Why didn't we soak in those carefree, simple years together? Why didn't we appreciate them more?

We hadn't known what life would throw us. And at this point, I don't think anything else could possibly come our way. But April is right. It's us.

Sitting at the dining room table a few days later, April's cane rests next to the chair she's in. She opted for one that isn't collapsible, being that she wanted it to be strong and lasting. She's still learning how to use it - her first appointment with the mobility instructor is next week - but she's been trying it out and practicing around the house. It pisses her off more than anything.

At first, we tried to entertain the idea that it would be fun, but she gets frustrated every time she practices. She doesn't quite know the correct way to use it yet, and it makes her angry. So, most of the time, it just sits against her chair and looks pretty.

Right now, she has a book on Braille open that she's trying to study, and I'm writing out plans for Peyton's birthday party this upcoming weekend. I steal glances at her while she runs her fingers over the dots and mouths words to herself, feeling my chest swell with pride over how she's dedicated herself to learning. She'll receive formal lessons soon, but she wanted to test out the book on her own first. It has a speaking function that says the letter, then she traces the shape with her finger to memorize it. I've heard the alphabet spoken in a robotic, monotone voice more from that thing than I do any of Peyton's baby books.

"So, your family, my mom, Izzie and George, Mark, Lexie and Poppy, Bailey and Ben, Callie and Arizona, Owen and Amelia… how's that guest list sound?" I ask.

"Richard," she mutters, without lifting her head. "Alex and Jo."

"Oh, shit," I say, quickly writing them down. "You're right."

Next, I work on creating an E-invitation on Facebook, opening the page after finding a picture for the banner - an adorable one of Peyton that we had taken a few months ago. She's wearing a blue dress, lying on her back on some fuzzy carpet, looking like an angel. There's no way anyone could decline while looking at that face.

"So, on Saturday," I continue. "2?"

She shakes her head. "She'll be sleeping, Jackson," she says. "Think."

I close my eyes and try not to feed into the tension in the room. She's frustrated with herself, not me - the curse words under her breath were enough of a giveaway.

"Right," I say. "So, how about 4 to 6? That's enough time for a baby party, right?"

"Should be."

"Cool," I say, then put that down in the time slot.

Suddenly, April smacks the table with an open hand and growls. She doesn't explain why, and I don't ask for details. I can't imagine learning is very easy, but I leave her to it. I've been doing my best not to baby her anymore.

She presses the button on the side of the book and it says, "B."

"I know," she mutters, then presses a different one.

"D. D. D. D."

"Shut up," she says, then flips the page back to where she'd been before, still trying to decipher the same word that set her off.

"I was gonna stop by Party City and get the decorations tomorrow after work," I say. "You want me to pick you up so you can go with?"

"I guess," she says, still tracing. I can see, written to the left of it, that the word in question is 'bed.' I don't tell her, though. She can figure it out.

"You guess?" I say, raising my eyebrows. All I get in return is a shrug and concentrated lines in the middle of her forehead. "Okay, then. How about cake? I heard Sweet Mandy B's in Lincoln Park makes amazing birthday cakes."

"Do that, then."

"Are we even gonna discuss it?" I ask.

"You seem to have it pretty figured out already," she says, hunched over the book.

I shoot her a look and feel guilty instantly after. I shouldn't give her dirty looks when she can't see them, that's not fair. But she isn't being very fair, either. After the conversation turned fight turned makeup sex that we had the other night, we've both been trying to be better. But we're still human. The situation is still just as awful as it was before we found common ground.

"What should she wear?" I ask. "I was thinking a onesie with the word 'one' printed on it and a little tutu."

"Yeah," she mutters, eyes closed now.

"April," I say. "Do you even care?"

"Does it matter?" she snaps, face glowing red. "To me, should it even matter? Just do what you want, Jackson. Because Peyton won't care, and I can't see shit anyway!"

"Jesus Christ," I say, setting my phone down roughly on the table. "You have to stop this."

I get up from the table to go to the kitchen for water, and her voice rings out instantly after. "You can't just walk away," she says. "I can't tell where you are. You know that. Why do you do that?!"

"I'm getting a glass of water," I say, trying to keep my cool. "Is that allowed?"

"No," she says, shoving her chair out. She pats along the table to find the cane, and successfully wraps her fingers around the handle. When she turns around to come towards me, she looks more natural with it than she has until this point. "I was talking to you. You can't just walk away from a blind person."

"It's ten feet, April."

"I was talking!" she insists, and waves the cane this way and that on the floor in a manner I'm sure isn't recommended. "Where are you?"

"In the kitchen," I repeat, flustered.

"God damn it, Jackson," she says, still wielding the cane. I take a big sip of my water, then choke because the cane smacks me in the ankle and makes me spit some out.

"Shit!" I say. "Don't hit me with that."

"Found you," she says, apples of her cheeks flushed pink. She gives me another twack on the shin, not hard enough to hurt badly, but enough to sting.

"Hey!" I say. "That one was on purpose. Quit."

"No, it wasn't," she says, but a smile plays at the corners of her lips. "I'm just trying to find you, since you think running away from someone who can't see is fun."

"I was thirsty," I say. "Ow!" She gives me another whack on the opposite ankle, and I set my glass down. "You're in for it, little lady."

She shrieks, mouth wide open and eyes round, too. As I make a beeline for her with my arms outstretched, she drops the cane and tries to run, but doesn't get far before I scoop her up and lift her feet from the ground.

"Not so big and bad without your weapon, huh?" I say playfully, swinging her small body around while she laughs louder and harder than I've heard in forever. "What are you gonna smack me with now?"

"Hey!" she says, breathless because she's giggling so much. "Get off me!"

"I don't think so," I say. "Not that easy."

I carry her to the couch and plop her onto the cushions while she still smiles, then cover her body with mine.

"You're gonna crush me," she says, both hands on my sternum.

"Good," I say, and kiss her neck.

She tips her head up and strokes my ankle - the spot where she'd hit me - with one socked foot. "Did I get you good, baby?" she asks. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"Nah," I say, threading my fingers through her hair to kiss her. "I'm tough."

She lets out a content little sigh and kisses me back, then runs her hands over my head. "Your hair's too long," she whispers.

"Haven't heard you say that in a while," I note.

"Perks of having a blind wife," she murmurs, then laughs at her own joke.

She keeps the smile on her face as she rubs her nose against mine, and I keep my eyes open. The whites of hers don't unsettle me anymore - in fact, looking into them is becoming more and more familiar. Though it might not seem possible, they've become personified and they're still so her. Her eyebrows have grown almost all the way back in, and she's slowly being glued back together. Inch by inch, step by step, day by day.

"I love you, blind wife," I say, then kiss her cheek.

She pauses for a moment and inhales softly, just holding my face. Then, she softens again and smiles, tilting her head to kiss me slow. When we pull apart, she pulls me closer with one leg and says, "I love you too, boo."

"Do you want your blue dress, or the purple one?"

April and I are standing in the walk-in closet while Peyton plays in the empty tub, already dressed in her party clothes. Like I'd planned, she's wearing a white onesie with the word 'one' in gold lettering with a pink and gold tutu on the bottom. When I put her in the outfit, I rushed into the room where April was and nearly gushed over how cute she was, saying 'you have to see this.'

Luckily, I stopped myself before that could happen. Today has been good so far, and I want to keep it that way.

"The blue wrap dress?" she asks, standing in her bra and underwear.

"Yeah."

"Sure, that one," she says. "Can you help me? The fabric gets all scrunched."

"Of course," I say, and lift it over her head, careful of her already-done hair.

It's curled today, which it hasn't been in a long time, because I spent all last night watching YouTube videos and practicing until I got it right. I'm proud to say that - though the curls don't look as good as if she'd done them herself - I didn't do too bad.

The makeup, though, I'm not as skilled at. I helped with mascara, but she knew without even seeing that I went too heavy on the blush. So, I just acted as her eyes for that. We had laughed that there wouldn't have been a need to hire a clown for the party if I was in charge of the rouge, and I smile to myself just thinking about it.

"Is it okay?" she asks, wringing her hands after smoothing down the material.

"Turn," I say, and she does. "You look amazing."

"Do I look like a fun mom?" she asks.

"You look like a hot mom," I say, winding an arm around her waist to get closer and kiss her cheek. "You look perfect."

I rub her outer arm to try and relax her, but those muscles stay tense. She skims a hand over her belly, which has started to show in the tiniest way, and lets out a long breath.

"Everything's gonna be fine," I say. "It'll be great."

"They haven't seen me since," she says. "What if they get freaked out by…"

"Those eyes?" I fill in, already knowing what she'll say because of the multitude of conversations we've had in the days leading up to this. "Those gorgeous eyes?"

"Jackson," she says, shaking her head while looking down.

"They're all adults," I say. "They can handle themselves. I don't even want you to think about them today. It's P's day. It's our day! We kept our baby alive for a whole damn year."

She snorts and leans against me, resting her head on my shoulder. I kiss the crown, and give her a reassuring squeeze.

"And if you need to take a rest, just say so. Don't be afraid to say so."

"Okay," she murmurs, then takes a deep breath. "We should get down there."

I swoop the baby out of the tub, kissing her cheeks exuberantly. "Get a load of this one-year-old!" I announce, lifting her high in the air. "This big, bad one-year-old!"

April smiles and reaches for the baby, who goes to her eagerly. April gives her a big hug and sways from side to side, dropping kisses on Peyton's pudgy cheeks and neck.

"You're growing too fast," April says, lips moving against the baby's forehead. "You better slow down."

Peyton coos happily and presses her hands to her mother's face. I smile watching the both of them, feeling complete and satisfied. At least for today, everything is right.

I keep an eye on April as people start to arrive. I don't hover or make it a point to watch her, but I check in every few minutes with a silent sweep of the room.

Much to my surprise, she's enjoying herself every time I look. She's laughing, drinking punch, and passing out hors d'oeuvres to the guests. She lets people feel her mini-bump, and doesn't shut down. She socializes for almost a full hour before finding me, and at that point I'd abandoned my watch and started to do my own thing.

"Boo," she says, coming up behind me to wrap a hand around my bicep. "Should we do the cake now?"

"Hell yeah," I say, then lead us both into the kitchen where it sits in the fridge.

We did end up going to Sweet Mandy B's to get a customized cake. It's chocolate with white icing, princess decorations, and 'Happy First Birthday, Princess P!' drawn in cursive with frosting. I spent at least twenty minutes describing it to April when we got it, until she felt like she could see it, too.

What matters most is that I can taste it, she had said, which made us both laugh.

"Here comes the cake!" I announce, and April walks by my side carrying the longer lighter and the candle shaped like the number one.

April's mom must have put Peyton in her high chair, because she's positioned perfectly. The lights are dim and everyone is gathered around the table, waiting expectantly for the main attraction.

I set it down and direct April's hand in the right spot, and she sticks the candle in firmly before handing me the lighter. The candle flickers to life and Peyton watches in amazement, eyes wide and round, looking just like April's used to when she was blown away by something.

We all sing 'happy birthday,' and after, I notice April has gone a bit quiet. Everyone is waiting, and Peyton is still staring at the cake with that adorable expression on her face.

It hits me harder than ever that April isn't seeing this. She'll never see either of our children on their birthdays, so it's my job to bring her as close as possible.

"She's staring at the cake like it's the best thing she's ever seen," I whisper, one arm around my wife's shoulders. "Her eyes are so big. Like yours got, when you saw the ring I proposed with. You know?"

She nods slowly, still listening.

"She's perfect," I say. "She looks just like you right now. Like she can't believe she's turning one, either. The candle is shining on her face, kinda making her look all magical. It's like something from a movie."

"Yeah?" April says, very quietly.

"Yeah," I say, and kiss her cheek slow. "We made her, baby. And here she is, turning one. Can you believe it?"

She shakes her head, and a tear falls down either cheek. But this time, I know for certain they're not from sadness, because I'm feeling the same way.

"Before she gets all messy, let's get a picture!" Karen says, interrupting the soft moment.

"Sure," I say, then nudge April. "Baby?"

"Of course," she says, and I come to realize that this will be her first photo since everything happened. It hadn't crossed my mind before, because it was such a mundane thing to think about. But now, everything is different.

We both kneel next to the high chair, and April turns her face in towards Peyton's and closes her eyes, smushing a kiss to our one-year-old's cheek. I mirror the pose, the room shrouded in darkness once I do, and wrap an arm around the both of them.

After the camera clicks, the Polaroid comes out almost immediately. I hold it in my palm - the photo paper as white as April's eyes - and the image begins to show out of the fog, just how I'd pictured.

It's the three of us, acting like us. Peyton is smiling big and happy, arms outstretched. And with both mine and April's eyes closed and kissing her, we look like any other family. Because that's what we are, and that's all we can ask for. The three of us, soon to be four, with our own struggles and strife, but making it through every day. Creating our own version of normal and taking things as they come.

"Can someone turn on the lights?" Lexie asks. "I can't see a thing."

For a moment, the whole room goes silent with anticipation and everyone looks to April, realizing the insensitive remark too late.

But I know better. I can see the laughter in the crinkles by her eyes, so I'm not surprised when she throws up her hands and says, "Yeah, for real. I can't see a thing!"