Dreaming in Pink and Concrete
571 Words
Chapter XII: Dreaming in Pink and Concrete
The boys were four now—wild, hilarious, and inseparable. Caleb and Liam had inherited Blake’s focus and Beatrice’s boldness, charging through childhood like tiny whirlwinds in hard hats and boots, often found “inspecting” toy cranes and making “executive” decisions with their juice boxes in hand.
Their home was full—of love, of laughter, of loud mornings and long nights.
But lately, Beatrice had been dreaming in pink.
Not lace and frills—she wasn’t that type. But soft pinks and warm lilacs, tiny sneakers beside the muddy boots, a gentle balance to the glorious chaos.
She stood at the edge of their backyard one evening, watching the boys chase each other in loops, Blake flipping burgers at the grill. Her hand settled instinctively over her stomach.
Nothing yet. But maybe soon.
Later that night, the kids tucked in and dishes cleared, Blake joined her on the porch. The stars were scattered bright above them.
“You’ve been quiet,” he said gently, handing her a cup of chamomile.
“I’ve been thinking,” she admitted.
“Dangerous,” he teased, nudging her shoulder.
She smirked. “About the future.”
Blake studied her. “Another promotion? New project?”
“No…” she turned to him, eyes hopeful. “I want to try for a third. A girl.”
Blake’s face softened instantly. He reached for her hand. “You’ve been dreaming of her, haven’t you?”
Beatrice nodded, her voice barely a whisper. “She’s in my heart already. I can feel her.”
He kissed her hand, reverently. “Then let’s build her a space.”
They spent the next few weeks talking about names, drawing imaginary nursery plans alongside blueprints and site schedules. In the quiet moments—between meetings, after baths, during lullabies—they imagined her. A daughter. Their daughter.
One night, Caleb, half-asleep on Blake’s lap, murmured, “When is our baby sister coming?”
Beatrice paused mid-cleanup, her heart stuttering.
Blake looked at her. “Soon,” he said, smiling.
But life had other plans. The first few months of trying brought hope... then disappointment. Each cycle is a little heavier than the last.
Beatrice sat in their bedroom one evening, a test clutched in her hand. Negative. Again.
Tears welled, uninvited.
Blake entered quietly and sat beside her.
“Another no?” he asked softly.
She nodded, wiping her cheek roughly. “Maybe we’re too old now. Maybe it’s not meant to happen.”
He took the test from her hand, set it gently aside, and pulled her into his arms.
“You didn’t build towers from scratch just to give up, Bee. And you’re not alone in this. If it takes a year, or more… or never… we’re still a family.”
She buried her face into his chest. “I know. I just… feel her. I want to meet her.”
“You will,” Blake whispered. “In her own time. Just like everything else you’ve built—she’ll come when the foundation is ready.”
That night, as they held each other under warm blankets and cooler fears, Beatrice let herself believe again—not just in a future daughter, but in the strength of what she and Blake had already created.
And somewhere in the quiet dark, hope stirred like blueprints drawn beneath the stars.
- Writer
