I swear, if Koda calls Wolf “Dada” one more time with that squeaky little voice, I might melt into the floor. Not because I’m mad. Not even a little. Just... jealous. The good kind. The kind that makes your chest ache and your heart flutter all at once.
He’s never called me Mama. Not yet. And I get it—he’s still figuring it all out. But every time he says it to Wolf, it’s like a little bell rings in my chest. A reminder. A hope.
Dinner was chaos in the best way. Garlic and laughter and Koda babbling about “pillow bread” like it was a national treasure. I barely tasted my food, too busy watching him shovel pasta into his mouth like it was a race. Wolf sat beside him, calm and steady, like he’d been born for this. Like he’d always known how to be someone’s safe place.
And then Mama walked
