Growing Seasons
1370 Words
Chapter Sixteen: Growing Seasons
Catherine stood in the garden just after sunrise, the early light painting the world in soft pinks and golds. Her hands rested on the curve of her belly, a little more pronounced each week, and she closed her eyes as the breeze passed through the budding lavender she’d planted months ago with Mira. The soil beneath her feet felt like something sacred now—steady, fertile, alive.
She smiled as she felt a tiny flutter beneath her palm.
“Morning, little one,” she whispered.
Inside the house, the sound of a saw hummed through the air—faint but rhythmic. Catherine followed the sound to the garage, where Max stood over a growing pile of wood shavings. He had one foot up on a stool, measuring a curved board with exaggerated concentration. His dark hair was a mess, his t-shirt smeared with sawdust, and yet, to Catherine, he looked like a vision of devotion.
“You’ve been out here since dawn,” she teased, leaning against the doorway.
He looked up with a sheepish grin. “It’s going to be perfect. Solid maple. No screws—only dowels. Safe enough to survive a toddler storm.”
“You realize the baby won’t care if it’s dowel-joined.”
“But I care,” he said, brushing sawdust from his arm. “You carried her—possibly him. The least I can do is build something worthy.”
Catherine stepped into the room and rested her hands on the edge of the nearly assembled cradle. “It’s beautiful, Max.”
He touched her wrist gently. “So are you.”
The scent of fresh paint lingered in the air—soft sage green, warm cream, and delicate blush accents. The nursery was coming back to life, but this time, it didn’t feel like an echo of the past. It felt new. Intentional. Joyful.
Max stood on a step stool, carefully attaching a mobile of stars and clouds to the ceiling beam. “Are we sure about the name Sprout Room?” he asked, glancing down with a smirk.
Catherine, cross-legged on the floor and sorting folded onesies by size, grinned. “It’s temporary. Mira insists it’s gender neutral.”
From the doorway, Mira bounced in, arms filled with stuffed animals. “Babies need friends,” she declared, plopping them into the crib one by one.
Leo followed, slightly less enthusiastic, dragging a cardboard box labeled ‘Leo’s Inventions: Fragile (Probably Dangerous)’ behind him.
“What are you doing with that?” Catherine asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Donating it to science,” Leo said dramatically. “Specifically, the scientific education of the new baby. They’ll thank me someday.”
Max laughed. “Maybe don’t start with the potato-powered light bulb.”
“It worked!” Leo defended. “Kind of.”
Mira placed a fluffy bunny beside the mobile and turned to Leo. “You know you have to be gentle, right? Like… super gentle. Babies are squishy.”
Leo rolled his eyes. “I know that. I was gentle with you.”
“You put a beetle in my crib.”
“I was three! I thought it was a pet!”
Catherine held back a laugh as Mira crossed her arms, clearly unconvinced.
“Well,” Mira said, “I’m going to be the baby’s favorite sibling. I already wrote a lullaby.”
Max lowered himself from the stool, brushing his hands on his jeans. “Let’s hear it.”
Mira cleared her throat and sang with dramatic flair:
🎵 “Little baby from the stars / soft as clouds and full of charm / I’ll protect you night and day / unless you drool on my ballet.” 🎵
There was a beat of silence.
“That’s… creative,” Leo offered, then whispered to Max, “Does drooling really cancel ballet?”
Max smirked. “I think it depends on the severity.”
Catherine gathered up the tiny folded clothes and stood, watching her children—bickering and loving and preparing in their own way. The warmth in her chest was nearly overwhelming. This baby was entering a family already rich with love and chaos.
“Hey,” she said, soft but firm. “Can I tell you both something?”
They turned toward her.
“Your little sibling is going to be really lucky. Not because of the room, or the toys, or the lullabies. But because they’re going to grow up watching two of the bravest, kindest people I know.”
Leo’s cheeks flushed red, and Mira beamed like she’d won a trophy.
“Will they look like you or Max?” Leo asked.
“Maybe a little like both of us,” Catherine said. “Or maybe like none of us. But whoever they are… they’ll be loved.”
Mira skipped over and wrapped her arms around Catherine’s waist. “We’re ready.”
Catherine looked down at her daughter’s shining eyes, and then over to Leo—awkward, thoughtful, brilliant Leo—who quietly placed a small, hand-painted wooden rattle on the changing table.
So ready.
She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks warmed. “Sawdust compliments. New level unlocked.”
Meanwhile, in the living room, Mira lay on her stomach, surrounded by a galaxy of sticky notes and glitter pens. Each note had a name written in giant, swooping letters: "LunaSparkle," "Twinkleberry," "Princess Starbeam II."
Leo, perched on the couch nearby, peered at her list with dismay.
“You can’t name a real baby ‘Sparkle Muffin.’ People will laugh at her.”
Mira pouted. “It’s unique. Like me.”
Leo sighed and turned toward Catherine as she entered, hands still dusted with soil from the garden.
“Mom,” he said hesitantly, “what if I mess this up?”
She paused. “Mess what up?”
“Being a big brother. I mean, Mira came when I was little, and I don’t remember doing anything. But now I’m older and… what if I’m not good at it?”
Catherine walked over and sat beside him, drawing him gently against her side. “Leo, you already are a big brother. You take care of Mira, even when she’s throwing glitter into your shoes.”
“She did that once.”
Catherine chuckled. “You have a kind heart. You notice things. You ask questions. That’s what being a good big brother means.”
He looked down. “But what if the baby doesn’t like me?”
She tipped his chin up. “This baby’s going to love you—because you’re you. And because you already care enough to worry about it.”
Max joined them, wiping his hands on a rag. “Hey, team meeting without me?” he joked.
Mira scrambled up, holding her notebook. “I’ve narrowed it down to five names.”
“Please say none of them include the word ‘galaxy,’” Leo groaned.
Max laughed. “Let’s hear them.”
She cleared her throat, reading in her best princess voice: “Option one—Princess Starbeam the Second. Option two—Lilac Twinkle. Option three—Captain Sparklepop—”
Catherine buried her face in her hands, laughing.
“—Option four—Hope. And option five—Luna.”
Leo blinked. “Wait. Hope’s actually kind of nice.”
Max nodded thoughtfully. “I like that one too.”
Catherine looked between them, her heart blooming with a warmth that filled her from within. The name hung in the air like a thread of light.
Later that night, after the kids were in bed and the stars stretched across the sky like whispers from another time, Max ran his hand across the nearly finished cradle.
Catherine stood beside him, barefoot, robe tied around her now-rounder belly.
“I think she heard us,” she whispered.
He kissed her temple. “Then let’s call her Marie. Until she tells us otherwise.”
They stood together in the quiet of the garage, wood shavings at their feet, love hanging in the air like sawdust and stars.
A new season was blooming—and this time, it was theirs to keep.
- Writer
