Mommy, Please Marry Our Daddy

Emma "Will you be our mommy?" The question hung in the air like a soap bubble. I froze, coffee pot hovering over a customer's cup, and looked down into a pair of bright blue eyes. The cafe's Christmas playlist softly played "White Christmas" in the background, a gentle reminder that tomorrow wasn't just my wedding day – it was Christmas Eve. My name is Emma Bennett. I'm twenty-five, and this wasn't how I expected to spend the day before my wedding – being proposed to by a five-year-old while wearing my coffee-stained waitress uniform. Then again, nothing in my life had gone as expected since that day ten years ago when my grandfather's company suddenly collapsed and my comfortable Upper East Side life disappeared overnight. One day I was the pampered granddaughter of one of New York's most respected businessmen, taking design classes at Parsons and planning my future fashion empire. The next, I was watching my father walk out on us, leaving my mother and me to deal with the crushing debt and scandal alone. My mother, who'd never worked a day in her life, started teaching art at a local community center. And I? I learned how to stretch a dollar and juggle college classes with part-time jobs. "I – um..." For once, I was speechless. The little girl who'd asked couldn't have been more than five, with adorable brown curls and a determined expression that suggested she wasn't taking no for an answer. "Lottie!" A little boy at her side tugged at her sleeve, his cheeks flushed pink. "Dad said not to bother the nice lady." I set down the coffee pot before I could spill it – again. Third spill this week, and I couldn't afford another uniform. Not with my mother's medical bills still piling up and my measly waitress salary barely covering rent. The memory of five years ago still haunted me – my mother collapsed in our tiny apartment, and I had to make choices I never thought I'd make just to afford her treatment. But that was another secret I kept buried, along with so many others from that desperate time. "It's okay," I said, kneeling to meet their eyes. "I'm not bothered. My name's Emma. What's yours?" "I'm Lottie!" The little girl bounced on her toes. "And this is my brother Noah. He's younger than me by six whole minutes." Noah rolled his eyes. "It's just six minutes." "Still older," Lottie sang, then turned back to me. "You're really pretty. Like a princess! And you make the best hot chocolate ever. Noah and I have been coming here for weeks, and you always put extra marshmallows in ours." I touched my brown hair self-consciously. Harrison, my fiancé, was always telling me I should dye it blonde – "More marketable for a designer's wife," he'd say. But I'd grown attached to my natural color, the same shade as my mother's. It was one of the few things I had left from my old life, along with the antique sewing machine my grandfather gave me on my sixteenth birthday – the last birthday before everything fell apart. I still used it to work on my designs late at night, after my shifts ended, holding onto the dream of launching my own fashion line someday. "Your hair is pretty," Lottie declared. "Like chocolate!" I smiled, remembering how my mother used to say the same thing. She'd brush my hair every night, telling me stories about her own dreams of being an artist before she married into the Bennett family. Now she was finally living that dream, though not in the way she'd imagined – teaching art to underprivileged kids in a community center was a far cry from the galleries and museums of her youth. "Your dad..." I started carefully. "He's over there!" Lottie pointed to their usual table, nestled in the corner near the decorated Christmas tree. I looked over and felt my breath catch. Their father was definitely not what you'd expect from a regular coffee shop customer. Tall, with broad shoulders under his simple button-down shirt, he had the kind of face that belonged in magazines – strong jawline, perfect nose, and intense blue eyes currently focused on his work papers. Dark hair fell across his forehead in a way that made my fingers itch to brush it back. He looked nothing like Harrison's polished, artificial perfection. "Daddy's very handsome, isn't he?" Lottie said proudly. "All the ladies at the park say so." Noah nodded seriously. "They always want his phone number." "Does he give it?" I found myself asking, then wanted to smack myself. What was I doing? Lottie's eyes sparkled mischievously. "Nope! He always says 'no thank you' very politely." She leaned in closer, dropping her voice to a stage whisper that was probably louder than her normal voice. "But I bet he'd give it to you if you asked. You're much prettier than the park ladies." I felt my cheeks burn. "I – that's not – I mean..." "Emma!" My manager Susan's voice cut through my stammering. "The hot chocolate is about to boil over!" I spun around to find the pot of chocolate bubbling dangerously. "Oh! Right! How about those fresh drinks?" Their faces lit up, and I silently thanked Susan for the save. As I prepared their drinks, she walked by with a knowing smile. "Those kids really like you," she said. "They only come in on your shifts. Been happening for a month now." "Really?" I hadn't noticed the pattern. "Their daddy's not bad to look at either." She winked. "Single dad, from what I've heard. Comes in every Saturday morning, tips well, actually cleans up after his kids." "Susan!" I held up my left hand, showing my engagement ring – the one Harrison had picked because it photographed well. "I'm getting married tomorrow, remember? Christmas Eve wedding and all?" "Honey, I've seen how that fiancé of yours talks to you." She frowned. "Last week when he came in? Heard him complaining about your 'waitress posture' and how you need to 'carry yourself like a proper society wife.'" I flinched at the memory. "He just wants what's best for me." "Uh-huh." Susan didn't look convinced. "And I suppose that's why he's making you quit your job right after the wedding? Because it's 'best for you'?" Before I could respond, my wedding planner's message popped up on my phone: Remember - Final dress fitting at 2 PM. Harrison insists on the modifications we discussed. Don't argue about the neckline again. I let out a sigh. Another "modification" to make me fit Harrison's perfect image. Last week it was my hair, now my dress. What would it be next? "Miss Emma?" Noah had appeared at the counter. "Are you okay? You look sad." I forced a smile. Life had taught me how to keep smiling, even when everything was falling apart. It was a skill I'd perfected during those first few months after the scandal, when whispers followed me through the halls of my private school. When former friends crossed the street to avoid talking to me. When I had to learn how to use a subway card for the first time at sixteen because we could no longer afford a driver. "Just fine," I said, pushing away the memories. "Here, help me carry these to your table?" As we approached their table, their father looked up. Those blue eyes hit me like a physical force. "I'm so sorry if they bothered you," he said, his voice deep and warm like mulled cider. "They're supposed to stay at the table." "But Daddy," Lottie protested, "we were just asking Miss Emma an important question!" "Oh?" One perfect eyebrow rose. "It's nothing," I said quickly, setting down their drinks. "Though you might want to have a talk with your daughter about her matchmaking skills." A faint blush colored his cheeks, making him even more handsome. "Lottie, what did you do?" "I just asked her to be our mommy," Lottie said, taking a big sip of hot chocolate. "But she can't because she's marrying someone else tomorrow. Isn't that sad, Daddy?" His eyes met mine, and for a moment, I saw something there – regret? Interest? Whatever it was made my heart skip. "That's... very sad," he agreed softly. "I should get back to work," I said quickly. "Enjoy your drinks." As I walked away, I heard Lottie's clear voice: "Don't worry, Daddy. She puts extra marshmallows in our hot chocolate. That means she likes us. Maybe she'll change her mind." I bit back a smile. If only life were as simple as Lottie's five-year-old logic. If only I could forget about Harrison's controlling behavior, about my mother's medical bills, about my dreams of becoming a designer that seemed to be slipping further away with each "improvement" Harrison suggested. "Table six needs their check!" Susan called out. Right. Back to reality. Back to coffee cups and checks and preparing for tomorrow's wedding. But as I wiped down tables, I found myself watching the little family in the corner. Lottie was animatedly telling a story, her hands waving in the air. Noah was carefully arranging his marshmallows in a pattern. Their father was watching them both with such tenderness it made my chest ache. Five years. The thought hit me suddenly, making my hand shake as I picked up their empty cups. The twins were five. The same number that haunted my dreams, marked the biggest sacrifice I'd ever made. The same age as... No. I couldn't think about that. About the choice I made when my mother's medical bills were piling up. About the contract I signed, the nine months that changed everything, the babies I never held. "Goodbye, Miss Emma!" Lottie called out as they prepared to leave. "See you next Saturday!" My chest tightened at her voice. Something about these children pulled at me in a way I couldn't explain – or didn't dare to. "Actually..." I started to say, but couldn't finish. How could I tell them I wouldn't be here next Saturday? That after tomorrow, Harrison wouldn't want his wife working in a coffee shop? "Next Saturday," their father said softly, his blue eyes meeting mine. "Same time?" Something fluttered in my stomach as I looked at his gentle gaze and the twins' hopeful faces. "Next Saturday," I heard myself say. It was a lie. After tomorrow's wedding, I'd never see them again. Never make another hot chocolate with extra marshmallows. But I couldn't bear to see the disappointment in their eyes. As I watched them leave, my phone buzzed again. Harrison's face flashed on the screen, along with his message: Found out something interesting about your past. We need to talk. NOW. My blood ran cold. Harrison never wanted to "talk" unless something was wrong. What had he discovered?