Nicholas POV:
I’d always been a deconstructionist, breaking down complex issues into simpler parts to understand the whole better. I supposed the same could be said when I analyzed my life. It could be broken down into two basic parts: before Willow and after Willow.
When I really looked at it, the truth was that I never lived much of a life before Willow. I was accomplished, admired, and even desired and envied by almost everyone around me. I’d once thought that was enough. But I was wrong. I’d never been more wrong.
The last four and a half years had brought me so much more than I ever imagined possible. Much more than the decades preceding combined. More happiness. More fulfillment. More meaning. Before Willow, I was content with being successful in business, even at the expense of personal relationships. After Willow, my satisfaction was found nowhere near the billions of dollars at my fingertips.
It was in her smile. Her laughter. The way her eyes lit up when I told her how beautiful she was. It was in our son. Our William. In our triplet daughters she still carried. There wasn’t a moment during my days when they weren’t at the root of my thoughts. Were they safe? Were they happy? Was there anything more I could do to ensure both of those necessities were met?
I had been particularly cautious the last couple of months with Willow’s protection. As her belly grew bigger with our children, I couldn’t help but be reminded of what happened during her pregnancy with William.
How I’d made the biggest mistake of my life by letting go of her hand. Everyone told me it wasn’t my fault, that there was nothing I could have done to prevent it if Kate was determined to hurt Willow. I’d tried to let go of the guilt over time, but it was always there in the back of my mind. With that one lapse in judgment, I’d almost lost the best thing that had ever happened to me. I’d almost lost them both.
And with every cell of my being, I knew that if I had lost them, I would have followed them soon after.
Some might call those thoughts morbid, but I just called them honest. My life could be broken into two parts: with Willow and without. And it was no longer possible for me to return to an existence without her.
“Higher, Daddy!”
I was attempting to balance and keep a grip on a wiggling William, who was standing on my shoulders and reaching to put the star on top of the tree. Willow giggled from the couch, where she had her feet propped up on a pillow, and gave us instructions on where each ornament should go. Her pregnancy was thirty-three weeks along, and her swollen feet bothered her daily.
“I can’t lift you much higher, Buddy. Can you reach it?”
William jumped a little, his sock-clad toes digging into my shoulders when he landed. “I did it!” he yelled, clapping.
Willow laughed again. “It’s crooked, William. Have Daddy lift you higher to fix it.”
I growled and turned to send her a mock glare. She didn’t appear the least bit repentant when she stuck her tongue out at me. My pretend threats obviously meant nothing when she knew I was wrapped around her little finger. I had been from the start.
“This way,” William said, hopping on his right foot.
I returned my attention to my excited son, extending him as far as I could while he fiddled with the star.
“That’s it,” Willow said. “You got it, William.”
He squealed again, jumping off my shoulders in a swan dive as I held him in my grip. I turned him in a mid-air somersault-his laughter ringing in my ears-before setting him on his feet. He took off running toward his mother.
“Careful, Buddy. Remember, no jumping on your mom. You have to be gentle with the girls.”
He slowed down, first hugging Willow and then her belly.
It had been interesting trying to explain to William about the upcoming arrival of his sisters. He was excited, but I wasn’t sure he really understood how small and “non-functional” they would be at the beginning. He thought they would be here and immediately be his playmates.
“Will the babies get here before Santa?” he asked Willow, patting her stomach.
“Well…” she started, ruffling his hair. “They aren’t due until after Christmas, but they may come early. You came a little early.”
I plugged in the lights and walked over to them, taking a seat on the couch and putting her legs on my lap.
“Won’t they be sad if they miss Christmas?” he asked, turning his big eyes on me. It was hard to believe he’d be four in just a few months. It seemed like the time had flown by.
“No, they won’t be sad. They’ll be too little to remember this year.”
He didn’t seem to believe me, his face inching closer to Willow’s stomach. “Babies, come out!” he yelled. “Presents are fun!”
“You don’t need to yell,” Willow explained. “They can hear you when you talk to them.”
He liked that, because he could talk all day and all night and then some. He proceeded to squeeze himself in next to Willow and chatted about everything Christmas. From chimneys and sugarplums to Baby Jesus and mangers. I’d been told by friends and family that there was nothing quite like having kids his age around the holidays.
The word magical was used a couple of times to describe it. I wasn’t sure about all of that, but it was fun to watch him enjoy himself, and maybe some of his enthusiasm rubbed off a little, too. I certainly needed it.
A shiver ran through me as I massaged Willow’s calves and feet, and I briefly glanced over to find her snuggling William while he prattled on. This pregnancy had been hard on her, for completely different reasons than her first.
We’d moved back into our home in the city about a month before, to be closer to Dr. Whitney and the hospital. Willow had one brief spurt of energy during her second trimester, where she felt good and attacked me constantly for some adult time.