The cabin smelled like vanilla, milk, and lavender.
Rosalie stood in the middle of the kitchen with flour on her cheek and baby Mariposa balanced carefully against her hip while trying to stir frosting with one hand.
“Heath,” she called, her voice sharper than intended, “if you let Willow bring another five trays of desserts into this house, we are going to need a second kitchen.”
From the living room came Heath’s laugh.
“She said it’s important.”
“She said that because she enjoys chaos.”
Willow’s voice immediately answered from outside.
“I heard that!”
Rosalie rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at her mouth.
It still felt unreal sometimes.
Being here.
Standing.
Breathing.
Holding her daughter.
There were moments, usually at night, when memories of darkness still clawed thei
