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The video opens with the warm, flickering hum of old video camera footage—grainy, slightly overexposed, and chaotic in the way. The camera is too close to someone’s face at first—Agatha’s, to be exact. She squints dramatically at the lens, her long dark hair whipping in the wind.
“Hey kid, it’s your moms!” she grins, teasing her girl.
The camera tilts, jerks, and then swings to Rio, lounging on a patchy lawn wearing an oversized army jacket, green streaks in her dark hair, and aviator sunglasses that hide exactly nothing about how unimpressed she looks.
“She’s being dramatic,” Rio deadpans. “We met like… two weeks ago.”
Agatha grabs the camera and flips it into selfie mode. “And I already knew! You don’t just let the hot girl with green streaks in her hair take your notes for fun, unless you’re planning to fall in love.”
Rio sips from her half-melted iced matcha latte, fighting back a smirk. “I gave you my notes because you threatened me with your eyes."
“They’re called smizing,” Agatha says. “Learn to respect the art.”
The screen cuts to montage clips. Blurry shots of Rio asleep in the library, arms crossed over a biology textbook. Agatha sliding a folded love note into Rio’s hoodie sleeve while she’s mid-yawn. A selfie of them holding bubble teas by the river, their cheeks pink from wind and laughter.
Agatha said in a voiceover, “We were just two broke girls with one shared Spotify account, a bunch of textbooks, and very questionable taste in thrift-store jackets.”
Rio added, “She wore combat boots to class. I thought she was gonna punch me. I still fell in love.”
⸻
The footage switches to night. The grand steps of the campus library glow in soft amber light, students walking by in the background. Rio holds the camera now, filming Agatha who’s curled into her hoodie like it’s a second skin.
Rio’s voice is quiet, fond. “We used to sneak in here between lectures, you know, for studying.”
Agatha raises a brow. “And maybe a little kissing.”
Rio lets out a sharp laugh. “Maybe? I’m still emotionally recovering from the time we knocked over a bookshelf.”
“You knocked it over with your ass.”
“You’re not allowed to inherit that butt, kid,” Rio says to the camera. “It’s dangerous.”
Agatha smirks, but her tone softens as she looks at the library. “That was the first place I ever told someone I could see a forever.”
“And that someone,” Rio adds, tilting the camera toward herself, “was me!"
⸻
The next clip is chaos. Rain pelts down on a sidewalk as Agatha, drenched and defiant, holds up a handmade cardboard sign that reads in uneven letters, Date me for real?
Rio, dry under an umbrella, films from the steps.
“You dragged me into the rain for a video?” she says offscreen.
Agatha’s teeth chatter, but her grin doesn’t falter. “Not just a video! A declaration of love!”
Rio sighs dramatically. “I love you, but I hate the rain.”
“So is that a yes?” Agatha asks, eyes shining beneath rain-slicked bangs.
Rio flips the camera to herself. “It’s a wet yes.”
⸻
Cut to a still Polaroid. Agatha and Rio, cheek to cheek beneath campus fairy lights. Rio’s face is shiny from late-night takeout, while Agatha’s eyeliner is smudged from laughter. On the bottom, scrawled in black ink, losers and lovers
Agatha giggled in a voiceover, “I made her take this the night we became official. She said no and smiled anyway.”
Rio responded, " I said no because I looked sweaty. I smiled because I was already gone for her.”
⸻
The next segment is a screen recording of a FaceTime call. Lilia, their favorite English lit professor, now a friend, wrapped in a towel and wearing a thick green face mask, stares at the screen like she’s been personally betrayed.
“You WHAT?” she screeches. “You’re dating? And you didn’t tell me first? I’m disowning both of you.”
Agatha giggles. “We just started.”
Lilia snatches a wine bottle into frame like it’s part of a ritual. “I give it six weeks before one of you cries.”
⸻
Back in the present, the footage is sharper. Agatha and Rio sit side by side on a small twin bed, the comforter covered in rocket ships and glow-in-the-dark stars. Agatha leans into Rio, her fingers loosely curled through hers. Offscreen, Nicky’s soft giggles can be heard as he films them now.
Agatha speaks first. “That was the start of everything, baby. Every giggle, every fight, every kiss…”
Rio grins and finishes the thought. “…led us straight to you.”
They both lean in and kiss the lens.
“Love you, Nicky,” they say in perfect sync. “Happy birthday.”
⸻
It was in the middle of June, and the air was thick with possibility. The university quad was alive with cheers, flower bouquets, mortarboards clutched in sweaty hands. Among the sea of robes and camera flashes stood Agatha Harkness, wrapped in deep purple fabric and pure defiance. Her long dark hair whipped in the wind as she spun in circles, waving her cap like a victory flag.
“I’m the first Harkness to graduate college!” she hollered, her voice raw with pride. “I earned this drama!”
From several feet away, Rio Vidal stood watching her with a fond, exasperated smile, half-hidden behind her sunglasses. Her own robe was wrinkled from hugging too many family and friends, and sitting too long in the sun, and her tassel kept smacking her in the eye every time she moved. Still, she looked like she was trying very hard not to cry.
“Still dramatic,” Rio muttered, wiping under her eye and blaming it on the wind.
Agatha strutted over and flung an arm around Rio’s shoulder, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “You bet your butt I am! First-gen college grad, thank you very much. What did you expect?”
Rio smirked. “You majored in drama.”
“And I minored in you,” Agatha fired back, flipping her tassel with flair.
“Oh my god, stop the video!" Rio said, groaning—but her grin stretched wider anyway.
They stayed like that for a while. Just two broke girls in borrowed gowns and thrifted boots, surrounded by balloons and noise and the certainty that something was ending—so something else could begin.
⸻
Packing for Europe wasn’t glamorous. Their tiny apartment looked like a war zone. Backpacks were half-stuffed with too many clothes and not enough planning. Fairy lights tangled with socks. A stack of granola bars teetered next to a map of Europe that had coffee stains on Belgium and lipstick smudges across Italy.
“We sold my favorite coffee table for this,” Rio mumbled, tossing an extra phone charger into her duffel bag.
Agatha, hunched over a suitcase with three different journals she refused to leave behind, shot her a look. “And some of my books too, but it's totally worth it.”
“We also used every penny of our savings.”
“Again. Worth it.”
Rio picked up a tattered guidebook titled Europe on $5 a Day and waved it like a white flag. “We’re gonna die in a hostel in Berlin.”
Agatha popped up, holding a single heeled boot. “Can I bring these?”
“No.”
“Rude.”
From somewhere in the apartment, Rio heard a loud clatter followed by a shriek. Then, Agatha’s voice:
"Okay but if anyone finds my passport, I swear it wasn't my fault!"
Rio just sighed. “She’s not gonna survive Paris.”
⸻
Their first stop was Lisbon, Portugal.
They touched down into sunlight that painted everything gold—the rooftops, the people, the sky. Agatha practically leapt off the plane, wide-eyed and electric. Rio stepped out behind her, blinking at the brightness, clutching her camera bag like a lifeline.
“Hey, kid, it's your moms.” Agatha whispered, twirling on a cobbled street as trams rumbled past, “we’re in Europe!"
Rio looked at her like she was both the chaos and the calm in her chest. “God help us all.”
They got lost the first afternoon. Agatha insisted on using an actual paper map because phones are boring. Rio hesitated but still followed her through alleyways and plazas and one too many hills before they finally stumbled into a pastel-colored bakery and collapsed with pastries.
“You said no phones,” Rio grumbled, cheeks puffed with flaky bread.
Agatha smiled. “And look where we ended up.”
“In a bakery. I found God, and then I lost Him again.”
“You found carbs. Same thing.”
The rest of the trip was a whirlwind of imperfect beauty.
Agatha was chased by pigeons in Venice, screaming that they robots created by the government to spy on us. Rio tried and failed to speak French in Paris, proudly declaring “Je suis… un sandwich” to a horrified waitress. They cried in Louvre museum. Brushed their teeth in hostel bathrooms with flickering lights, shared warm wine under sketchy hostel bunk beds, and danced in the rain when they missed a bus in Prague.
They kissed on trains, ferries, rooftops. Slept on each other’s shoulders. Made up stories about strangers in parks. Had three meltdowns, four arguments, and seventeen “I love you's” before they even hit Berlin.
In Rome, Agatha dropped her pistachio gelato and fell to her knees in mock despair.
“Fuck, this is bullshit,” she muttered, mourning the scoop that now lay melting on ancient cobblestone.
Rio filmed the whole thing, laughing behind the camera. “She’s grieving. Please send prayers.”
In Paris, they stood at the top of the Eiffel Tower, the wind sharp and cold. Rio wrapped her arm around Agatha, whose eyes never left the horizon.
“You look like a dream,” Rio whispered.
“Good,” Agatha murmured, voice barely there. “Because I’ve been dreaming of kissing you here since junior year.”
“So kiss me already, tourist.”
She did.
One night in Amsterdam, they lay on their backs on a tiny rented boat, the canal lapping softly against the hull. Rio propped the camera up on her shoe. The sky stretched endless and pale above them.
“I think this trip changed me,” Agatha whispered.
Rio turned her head. “How?”
“I didn’t think I could ever just… wander. I’ve always needed structure, a plan, but with you…” Her voice wobbled slightly. “Wandering feels like purpose.”
Rio squeezed her hand, pulled it to her kissing it gently.
They ended the trip on a rocky beach in Croatia, legs curled under them as the sunset flamed across the sea. Agatha rested her head on Rio’s shoulder. The wind carried the scent of salt and pine.
A montage of videos captured on the way to the airport, Agatha murmured in a voiceover.
“We didn’t have a plan then,”
Rio chuckled. “We barely had clean underwear.”
“But we had each other.”
Rio kissed the top of her head. “And somehow, that was enough.”
They stayed like that a long while, not speaking, not needing to. Eventually, Agatha whispered, “We didn’t know it yet, sweetie… but this was the beginning of the life that would bring us you.”
“And every road,” Rio added, her voice like a promise, “led to you.”
⸻
Back home, years later, they told the story again—this time with Nicky squished between them on the couch, giggling at the “gelato tragedy” and marveling at young, sleepy versions of his moms backpacking across the world.
Agatha poked him gently. “You would’ve made a terrible backpack, by the way.”
“But the best travel buddy,” Rio added, pulling him into her side.
Nicky beamed. “I would’ve told Mom to use her phone.”
Agatha gasped, scandalized. “Traitor!”
Rio laughed and kissed his cheek. “Just like your mama.”
⸻
There’s a specific kind of silence that lives on the open road—one filled not with emptiness, but with promise. That was the kind of silence humming through the slightly beat-up silver Subaru Outback as it coasted down Highway 191, somewhere between Moab and Monument Valley. Dust curled behind them. Heat shimmered on the horizon. A dreamcatcher swung lazily from the rearview mirror. Agatha’s boots were up on the dash, ankles crossed, while Rio kept both hands on the wheel and her sunglasses pushed high on her nose.
They had been driving for days.
Agatha leaned sideways, reaching for the camcorder mounted on the dash. Her fingers were sticky from a gas station donut, but she didn’t care. She grinned into the lens.
“Hey kid, it’s your moms!” she chirped. “Still broke and in love. Still in this car for… what day is it, babe?”
Rio didn’t glance over. “Day nine of this hell trek,” she said dryly. “We’ve run out of playlists, clean clothes and snacks!"
“And we wouldn't have it any other way," Agatha replied, mouth full. “We suffer in beauty.”
The road trip wasn’t planned with any real logic. Purely spontaneous, just the two of them with a half-broken GPS, three duffel bags, and a Polaroid and a camcorder filled with hope and warm, sun-bleached curiosity.
They changed a tire on the shoulder of a Utah highway, Rio swearing in Spanish while Agatha read the instructions upside down.
They jumped into a freezing lake in Oregon just because a stranger they met at a gas station dared them to.
They cooked scrambled eggs over a camping stove on the side of the road while coyotes howled in the distance and laughed until they cried when Agatha dropped the pan and scrambled eggs became roadkill.
They took selfies at Mount Rushmore, kissed under the endless sky of Montana, and stood nose-to-nose with a roadside dinosaur statue in Arizona that Rio swore was haunted.
One night, in the middle of Nevada, Agatha stood in the desert, arms spread wide, and screamed into the void,
"I love you, Rio Vidal!"
Rio, behind the camera, burst out laughing. “Subtle.”
“We’re making history,” Agatha replied, beaming.
New Mexico was where the road quieted.
They parked the Subaru on the edge of a dusty bluff and watched the sunrise from inside the car, their sleeping bags zipped together, coffee steaming in mismatched mugs.
Agatha yawned and leaned her head on Rio’s shoulder.
“Today feels big,” she murmured. “I don’t know why.”
Rio looked down at her, her smile curling up slow and secretive. “Maybe it’s the altitude,” she said softly. “Or maybe it’s fate.”
It happened in Joshua Tree National Park.
The sun was just beginning to set, bleeding gold across the desert. They were alone. Just rock, sky, wind, and something ancient that buzzed beneath it all—like the Earth was holding its breath.
Agatha wearing her favorite boots from college, walking across a sun-warmed boulder, humming a Fleetwood Mac song under her breath. Her hair was all tangled and wild, her cheeks pink with remnants of dust particles. Rio stood a few feet away, camera carefully perched on a flat rock, palms slick against her jeans.
“She has no idea,” she whispered into the lens. Her voice trembled. “God, I hope I don’t faint.”
Then she walked toward her.
Agatha turned just as Rio dropped to one knee.
“Rio…?” she blinked, eyes wide, smile fading into something softer. Something sacred.
Rio pulled a small wooden box from her jacket. Her hands were shaking.
“Agatha, I don’t have a five-year plan,” she said, her voice thick. “Or a retirement plan, or a working car, apparently. But I have this… burning, reckless, ridiculous love for you, and it’s the only thing I’ve ever been sure of.”
Agatha’s eyes welled up instantly.
Rio swallowed. “I want more sunsets like this. More gas station coffee, more sleeping bag mornings. And I want you. Forever.” Her voice cracked. “Agatha Harkness… will you marry me?”
Agatha instinctively dropped to her knees so fast they nearly knocked heads. “YES,” she gasped, laughing and crying all at once. “Yes, you dumb, beautiful woman—yes!”
They kissed like the world was catching fire around them. They kissed until the camera fell sideways, capturing only their limbs and laughter and the golden blur of desert joy.
After the emotional montage of their proposal, the screens cuts back to Rio a few days prior, she's filming using her phone, rehearsing her proposal speech as she fidgets on the ring she bought for Agatha.
The video is grainy. Rio’s in a dimly-lit motel bathroom in Arizona, whispering into her phone camera with frantic eyes.
“Okay. I’m sweating through my shirt. If I mess this up, someone please edit this footage into a viral fail montage. Please.”
⸻
Agatha holds up her phone on FaceTime. Lilia is in a silk robe, holding a giant glass of wine. Agatha smiled widely, proudly showing off her engagement ring on the camera.
“WHAT?!” Lilia screams. “You did it in the desert?! Are you kidding me?
Agatha laughs. “It was so romantic!”
Lilia narrows her eyes. “Did she at least brush her hair?”
Rio said, off-camera, “Debatable.”
Lilia rolls her eyes but raises her glass. “Well. Fine. I’m officiating, but you better call me when you’re not covered in sand.”
Wanda appears on screen, holding up a construction paper card. "The boys wanted to say congratulations!”
Billy—at the age of 4—yells, “Yay Ag’fa and Ree-o!”
Tommy—who is also 4—jumping up and down, “Can I come to the wedding? I wanna eat cake!”
Back in their living room, the video fades into soft lighting. Nicky is curled on Rio’s lap, his little arms looped around her neck. Agatha sits beside them, her legs folded under her, one arm draped around Rio’s shoulders.
Rio brushes a curl out of Nicky’s eyes.
“I was scared,” she says. “I didn’t know if I’d ever be good enough for her.”
Agatha looks at her, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You are, Rio. Every day.”
Nicky’s eyes go wide, and asked innocently. “Wait, you proposed in a tree?”
Agatha bursts into laughter. “Not in a tree, honey. In a place called Joshua Tree. It’s a desert.”
“It has rocks,” Rio adds, “and magic."
The three of them dissolve into giggles and then together, like they’ve done since the beginning
“Happy Birthday, Nicky.”
⸻
The Sicilian air was thick with heat and roses. A soft breeze tugged at the bougainvillea spilling over the stone walls of the hilltop villa, their fuchsia blooms swaying lazily in the sun. From the open windows, you could see the Mediterranean glimmering in the distance, so blue it looked impossible.
Inside, the villa buzzed with pre-wedding energy.
Two white dresses hung side by side in the master bedroom, suspended from the wooden beams. They weren’t matching—Agatha would never allow that—but they complemented each other perfectly. One was sleek, modern, sharp in silhouette. The other was romantic, soft, with intricate lace and sleeves that felt like moonlight. They swayed in the breeze like they were already dancing.
Agatha sat cross-legged on a velvet chaise, wrapped in a silky robe, a glass of Prosecco in hand. Her curls were pinned, her eyeliner halfway finished. She peeked into the small camcorder perched on the vanity, eyes wide and a little wild.
“Hey kid,” she whispered into the lens, flushed with giddy nerves. “It’s your mom. And today… we’re getting married!"
Across the villa, in a room with more mirrors than windows, Rio sat stiffly while Alice tried to tame her curls.
“If she doesn’t cry when she sees me,” Rio said, deadpan, “we’re not signing the papers.”
“She’s already cried three times,” Alice replied with a grin. “Over her eyeliner. And once over the bread.”
“Excellent,” Rio smirked, catching her own reflection in the mirror. “She’ll be a puddle by the vows.”
The day before the wedding had been a fever dream of joy and minor disasters.
The rehearsal dinner had taken place in a sun-soaked vineyard just below the villa. Long wooden tables were draped with linen and olives and laughter. Agatha fed Rio grapes and olives with her fingers, giggling as Wanda tried—and failed—to keep the twins from chasing chickens between the vines.
Jen gave a toast after two bottles of wine that involved shouting, crying, and a drunken retelling of how Rio once accidentally proposed to Agatha with a bottle cap at a dive bar in New Orleans.
Aunt Lilia, dressed like a lesbian Meryl Streep in oversized sunglasses and a pale linen suit, had rehearsed her officiant lines beneath a fig tree with theatrical flair.
“Marriage is not the wine,” she declared. “It is the vineyard.”
“What does that even mean?” Alice asked from her perch in a hammock.
“It means shut up and let me be profound,” Lilia snapped.
Agatha had tried to practice walking in heels on the cobblestone streets of town and nearly faceplanted into a gelato stand.
“This town wants me dead,” she huffed, clinging to Rio’s arm.
Meanwhile, Rio spent the quiet hours sketching their wedding rings in the weathered leather notebook she’d kept since college, the same one that held old poems and daydreams and recipes she never followed.
The ceremony was set just before sunset.
Rio stood beneath an archway of wildflowers—roses, jasmine, trailing vines that brushed her shoulders when the wind stirred. Her suit was deep charcoal, perfectly fitted, and the only sign of her nerves was the way her fingers twitched at her sides.
Soft piano music floated through the garden.
Wanda, seated in the front row beside the twins, was already crying quietly, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. Jen held a fan to her chest like she was witnessing history. Lilia stood ready with her notes, looking like she might weep or burst into song.
Then the music changed.
Agatha stepped into the clearing.
She wore a gown the color of moonlight, with sleeves that floated at her elbows and jasmine pinned in her dark curls. She walked slowly, her arm looped through Alice’s. On her other side, Billy and Tommy toddled in their miniature suits, proudly carrying the rings on velvet pillows shaped like lemons.
Rio forgot how to breathe.
“She looked like everything I had ever dared to want,” she would later say, watching the footage back.
And Agatha, eyes locked on Rio, would whisper to the camera in a moment alone, “I never believed in fate until that moment.”
“We are gathered here—finally,” Lilia began with a teasing smile, “to witness the gayest thing to happen in Sicily since… last week.”
Laughter rolled through the garden like wind through trees.
Agatha took Rio’s hands, her voice trembling but steady.
“Rio,” she said. “I’ve known many things in my life. But none with the clarity that I know you are home. Through every version of me—chaotic and loud—you’ve stayed. So I vow to stay. To dance when it’s raining, to fight fair, to love you when I’m tired, when I’m scared, when I’m certain—and especially when I’m not.”
Rio’s eyes filled with tears.
“Agatha,” she said softly. “You taught me that softness is strength. That love is loud, and messy, and holy. I vow to keep choosing you—every day, in every way, in all the languages we don’t speak. Even when your snoring wakes me up.”
Agatha laughed through her tears. “You love it.”
Rio smirked. “It’s like sleeping beside a haunted teapot.”
Lilia raised her arms with a dramatic flourish. “By the power vested in me by… myself and the Italian internet, I now pronounce you wives. You may kiss your witch.”
The garden erupted with cheers. Rio dipped Agatha low into a kiss, one hand at her back, the other tangled in her curls. Rose petals rained from the sky, the twins throwing theirs directly at Agatha’s face.
She didn’t care. She was glowing.
⸻
The reception was held in the vineyard, long after the sun dipped below the horizon. A live band played. String lights twinkled like stars.
Everyone was dancing.
Until a goat wandered into the reception.
“Not the frosting!!” Wanda screamed, chasing it with a napkin as it took a bite out of the wedding cake.
Jen shrieked with laughter. “This is the most lesbian wedding ever!” she cried, filming it all.
Later, under the stars, Agatha and Rio sat curled up together beneath a canopy of fairy lights, limoncello in hand.
“We’ve been lovers,” Agatha said softly. “Roommates, travelers and fighters. Now we’re wives.”
Rio clinked her glass against Agatha’s. “We’re family.”
Agatha looked at her wife, then into the lens of the camcorder.
“And someday, sweetie… you are going to make us moms. But first—we dance!”
They raised their glasses.
“To you, baby,” they said together. “Even before we know you.”
⸻
The screen flickered.
Now it was Nicky on the couch, a flower crown askew on his curly hair, a half-eaten cannoli in one hand. He stared at the TV wide-eyed.
“Wait,” he said, mouth full. “a goat ate your cake?"
Rio burst into laughter. “Yes. And your Aunt Jen tried to ride it.”
Agatha reached over and wiped powdered sugar off Nicky’s cheek. “Your second birthday cake was better anyway.”
“It was chocolate!” Nicky announced proudly. "Can I have a Paw Patrol cake this year, mommy?"
"Of course! Just don't let your Mama and I bake it, It would be a disaster."
All three of them leaned in, arms around one another, laughter echoing in their living room.
⸻
7 months after the wedding, the living room was a gentle mess.
Sticky notes clung to the fridge like leaves after a storm, covered in reminders— Monday: bloodwork, Friday: progesterone, don’t forget to breathe. The counter was scattered with labeled vials, alcohol swabs, and a blue icepack trying to stay cold. The sunlight slanted in through the blinds, casting lines of gold over everything. The apartment felt like it was holding its breath.
Agatha sat cross-legged on the floor, wearing one of Rio’s oversized college shirts. She held up a folder labeled “IVF ROUND 1” in thick marker. Her smile was soft, a little nervous.
“Hey, kid,” she said, facing the camera on the coffee table. “It’s your moms. And today…” she glanced at Rio, who was beside her, cradling a half-eaten granola bar like it was sacred, “we’re starting a new adventure.”
“One with needles,” Rio added flatly, holding up a syringe like it was a cursed artifact. “And hormones and mood swings, and medically-sanctioned mess.”
Agatha chuckled. “But also… maybe you.”
They leaned their heads together, the frame flickering just slightly with movement. Outside, someone honked. Life carried on, but for them, everything was about to change.
The next few weeks blurred into a montage of quiet rituals and louder emotions.
There was Rio, meticulously assembling a small cooler full of medication while Agatha read every line of the instructions twice. There was Agatha, standing in front of the mirror in just pajama pants, using a pink highlighter to mark gentle circles on her belly— target zones, she called them, as if preparing for battle.
The mirror grew crowded with handwritten notes: You are strong. You are soft. You are made for this. Beneath one, Rio scribbled: And you have a cute butt.
Lilia mailed a care package from California. Inside: lavender socks, peppermint gum, a candle labeled “Fertility Witch Potion" and a playlist titled “Womb Vibes.”
Wanda texted every other day. You’ve got this, she said. You’re already the best moms I know.
The camera rested quietly on a side table, blinking red as it recorded. Rio sat on the couch, her brows furrowed as she reread the directions. Her fingers hovered over the syringe.
“It says insert the needle at a 90-degree angle,” she said. “Woah, it's like stabbing a vampire.”
Agatha groaned. “You’ve been watching too much Buffy, my love.”
Rio smirked. “You ready?”
Agatha nodded, then hesitated. “No,” she admitted. “But I trust you.”
That was enough.
The camera turned off before the needle pierced skin, but the next clip picked up after. Agatha sat curled against Rio’s side, her eyes red but dry, her breathing shallow and steady, exhaustion plastered all over her face.
“I just want to meet our baby,” she whispered. “I don’t even know its name, or its gender but I miss our kid already.”
Rio didn’t answer. She just held her tighter.
Just as the video ends, a bonus clip of Agatha flashed the screen.
“Why do I cry when there’s no oat milk?” Agatha demanded in the next clip, gesturing wildly with a spoonful of peanut butter. “Why did I yell at a bird today? Why does my skin feel like paper?!”
Rio’s voice, off-camera, was calm and amused. “She once threw a muffin at me,” she whispered to future-Nicky. “And I’d do it all again.”
They were sitting in the bathroom when the silence settled.
The test sat between them like a verdict. Rio saw the result first and gently exhaled. Agatha closed her eyes.
Neither of them said anything for a long time.
Then, Rio reached out and laced her fingers with Agatha’s. “We’ll try again.”
Agatha’s voice was barely audible. “What if my body’s not ready to be a mom?”
Rio looked at her like she had never said something more wrong. “Then we’ll wait, but we won’t stop hoping and loving each other. Our baby is still out there. I feel it.”
Wanda sent a video message from the backyard. Billy, age five, waved enthusiastically at the screen.
“Don’t be sad, Auntie Agatha!”
Tommy held up a handmade sign that read, BABY POWER!
Wanda wiped her eyes and smiled. “You’re doing everything right. Everything.”
After a failed IVF, it took a year for them to decide to try and risk everything again. It will all be worth it in the end, they keep reminding each other.
It was early morning. Rio was brushing her teeth when Agatha burst into the bathroom, barefoot and shaking.
“Rio!” she whispered. Her hand trembled as she held out the test.
Rio turned, foam in her mouth, eyes wide. She looked at the two pink lines. Then at Agatha, then back again.
They are finally pregnant.
She dropped her toothbrush into the sink.
“Is this—? Is it real?” her voice cracked.
Agatha nodded, her own eyes filling. “We’re gonna have a baby!”
They sank into each other, messy, joyful, crying and laughing all at once. The camera wobbled slightly—someone had knocked into it—but it kept recording.
Even blurry, it was beautiful.
Lilia was the first one to know via FaceTime, a few days after they found out. Her hair was a mess, her mug of tea steaming in one hand.
“I can't wait to be a godmother! ” she screamed. “I already love that baby! I’m buying a tiny cardigan to match with mine."
“You’re going to spoil him rotten,” Agatha said.
“I already do! ” Lilia cried, wiping her eyes. “And the sweet angel is not even here yet.”
⸻
Back on the couch in the present, Nicky snuggled under a thick blanket, his dark curls flattened on one side from a nap. The video had ended, but he hadn’t moved.
“Mama said you tried a lot to find me,” he said softly.
Agatha leaned in and kissed his temple. “Every test, every needle and every tear. All of it was the road to you.”
Rio wrapped her arms around them both. “And we’d do it again. A thousand times.”
They stayed like that for a long time. Just a little family made by magic and science and love that never gave up.
“Happy birthday, Nicky,” they whispered.
⸻
The OB-GYN clinic was quiet that morning. The soft hum of the machines, the gentle rustle of nurses’ scrubs. Agatha lay on the exam table, the gel on her belly cold, Rio sitting beside her, holding her hand with a grip that was both steady and trembling, while trying to balance the camcorder on her other hand.
The monitor flickered, then bloomed with the fuzzy black-and-white shapes they’d come to recognize—the tiny spine, the round curve of the head, the fluttering of limbs.
“Would you like to know the gender?” the doctor asked.
Agatha and Rio looked at each other. “Yes,” they said in unison.
The doctor smiled. “It’s a boy. Congratulations!”
There was a long beat of silence before Agatha gasped and clutched Rio’s hand tighter. Her eyes filled with tears.
“I knew it,” she whispered. “I knew it was him.”
Rio leaned in, her voice low and full of awe. “Hi, son. You little burrito.”
Rain tapped lightly against the kitchen window on a Sunday afternoon. Agatha, curled up in one of Rio’s oversized hoodies, was hunched over the table, surrounded by open baby name books.
A whiteboard stood in the corner, scribbled full of names in various styles. Cassius, Arlo, Theodore, Jazzberry, Captain Marvel. Agatha stood beside it with her arms crossed. Rio sat on the floor, giggling.
“No superhero names or else,” Agatha said, pointing at the board with a marker.
Across from her, Rio stood at the fridge in socks and boxers, eating cold pickles straight from the jar.
Rio pouted. “Fine. But what about something poetic? Like… Orion?”
Agatha paused, taken off guard. “That’s… actually kind of beautiful.”
Rio looked up at her. “Eh, still feels like a Nicholas, though.”
Agatha’s hand drifted to her bump. She smiled. “Yeah. He already told us who he is.”
Their apartment was bathed in golden morning light, the kind that made even the kitchen tile look romantic. Birds chirped outside the open window, and a soft breeze drifted in, rustling a dish towel on the oven handle.
The teapot hissed on the stove. Somewhere in the bathroom, the sound of cabinets opening and the faint clatter of bottles could be heard.
“It smells like melted plastic! ” Rio’s voice echoed dramatically from behind the door.
Agatha walked into frame, her face flushed with sleep, wearing nothing but Rio’s oversized flannel shirt that barely covered her thighs. She rubbed a gentle circle over her belly, now rounding out just enough to be real. There was a softness in her smile, like she was floating between the dream and the reality of it all.
She looked at the camera, eyes twinkling.
“Hey kid,” she said, “it’s your moms. Or at least, one of them. The other one is in the bathroom yelling about stretch mark cream.”
She leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “She’s been very brave.”
Behind her, Rio’s muffled complaints continued.
Then the video flashed a monthly montage of the progress of her pregnancy.
During Month 1, the video shows Agatha sitting in bed cross-legged, holding the tiny, grainy sonogram like it was a treasure map. Her fingers trembled. She stared at it for ten full minutes like it might blink or wave.
During Month 2, the video shows Rio, armed with a flashlight, crouched in front of Agatha’s belly like a camp counselor. “So once upon a time,” she began, “two women fell in love and accidentally created the coolest baby ever.” Agatha laughed from the couch.
During Month 3, the video shows Alice showing up at their door with pickles, marshmallows, and zero context. “Is this… is this a craving? Or a cry for help?” she asked, looking genuinely concerned. Agatha quickly dunked a pickle into a marshmallow.
During Month 4, the video shows Rio’s hand clutched Agatha’s as the first real ultrasound showed a squirming, stubborn little shadow. “He’s waving,” Rio said, eyes wet. “He’s flipping us off,” Agatha corrected.
During Month 5, the video shows Wanda standing in the nursery with a roller brush, twins passing her yellow paint trays like an art project. Billy painted a sun on the wall. Tommy labeled it “Sun #1” like there might be a sequel.
During Month 6, the video shows Agatha bursting into tears during a commercial. It wasn’t even a sad one. A golden retriever was licking a baby’s face. “He’s going to get rabies!” she sobbed. Rio just patted her on the head, totally unfazed.
During Month 7, the video shows Rio trying to swaddle a watermelon. It rolled off the couch. She shrieked like she’d dropped an infant. “Start again,” she told herself, sweating. The melon hit the floor with a thud. “Okay, that one had a weak core.”
During Month 8, the video shows Agatha curled into Rio her hand over the bump during a thunderstorm on the couch. Rio read poetry by candlelight: Neruda and Plath, whispering the words like spells.
During Month 9, the video shows Their bags all packed by the door. The car seat was secured and rechecked six times. The nursery glowed like a fairytale, but no one said it out loud—they were all waiting.
⸻
Their backyard had been transformed by string lights and paper lanterns. Music played low, and laughter filled the air. A long table overflowed with food, gifts, and mocktails—of course.
Lilia stood at the center, holding a glass of sparkling apple juice.
“To the coolest, softest, strongest moms I know,” she declared, raising her glass. “And the luckiest little boy who’s going to meet them soon.”
Jen was half-drunk on sangria and weeping into a napkin.
Alice sobbed into her cupcake. “I just love you both so much.”
Agatha wiped at her eyes. “We never thought we’d have this,” she said, voice cracking.
Rio wrapped her arm around her, whispering, “I can't wait to meet our son.”
In the nursery, the walls were pale yellow. A small lamp cast a warm glow.
Rio was kneeling beside Agatha, who reclined in the rocking chair with her belly round and visible beneath her sleep shirt.
Rio turned on her phone flashlight like a little stage spotlight.
“Hi, Nicky,” she whispered. “I’m your Mama Rio. You can kick once if you like jazz… twice if you prefer punk.”
A second later, Agatha gasped. “He just kicked twice.”
Rio beamed. “We’re raising a rebel.”
“He gets it from me,” Agatha muttered, laughing.
“No, my love. He gets it from me.”
It was well past midnight.
The living room lights were off, except for the amber glow of a table lamp. The camera sat angled from the arm of the couch. Agatha lay curled up, her head in Rio’s lap, her eyes barely open.
Her belly rose and fell slowly beneath her cotton shirt.
Rio stroked her hair gently, looking down at her like she was something holy.
“We’re ready,” Rio whispered to the camera. “I mean… we’re terrified. But also ready.”
Agatha murmured, half-asleep, “Tell him we’re waiting.”
Rio smiled. “He knows. He’s just being fashionably late like you on every date.”
Agatha groaned. “He’s taking his sweet time.”
The camera panned slowly across the nursery.
A small shelf filled with queer fairytales. A mobile of stars and moons swayed gently above the crib. A plush rabbit sat waiting on the mattress—Senior Scratchy, armed and adorable.
Then, the shot widened.
Agatha and Rio lay on the floor together, side by side on a baby blanket, staring up at the ceiling like they could see the future. Their fingers were tangled between them.
Agatha turned to the camera, her voice low and full of wonder. “We dreamt you for so long.”
Rio added, her voice cracking, “And now we’re counting the minutes.”
They both smiled—glowing, scared, utterly in love.
“Happy birthday, baby,” they whispered. “We’ll see you soon.”
Rain tapped gently against the hospital windows. The room was dim and still—except for the soft beeping of the monitor, the occasional shuffle of sneakers across tile, and Agatha Harkness’s ragged breathing.
She sat hunched forward in the hospital bed, sweat clinging to her brow, one hand gripping the edge of the mattress and the other locked in Rio’s. Her grip was a vice, but Rio didn’t flinch.
Rio’s other hand held the phone camera, shaky but recording. Her face filled the frame—flushed, eyes wide, strands of hair sticking to her forehead like she’d been the one in labor.
“Hey kid…” she whispered into the camera. “It’s your moms. And uh—no pressure, but I think you might be arriving tonight or in the next fifteen minutes or possibly right now.”
From the bed, Agatha let out a low groan and shot her a dry look.
“Tell him to stop being dramatic,” she muttered hoarsely. “He gets it from you .”
Rio set the camera on the windowsill. It caught the soft glow of overhead lights, the ticking wall clock that now sounded like a heartbeat, and the faint sound of thunder outside.
The doctor entered, gloved hands held up, calm and collected as if the world wasn’t about to split open.
“You’re at ten centimeters,” she announced. “It’s time.”
Rio crouched beside the bed, bringing her face close to Agatha’s. “You’ve got this. You’re doing so good, babe.”
Agatha’s head whipped toward her, her teeth bared in something that could be love or fury—or both. “If you say one more word, I swear to God—”
One of the nurses chuckled. “That’s how we know we’re close.”
Then it began.
Agatha bore down with everything she had. Rio counted, voice trembling. The nurses coached with professional calm. Agatha’s cries filled the room—raw, primal, desperate. Rio cried with her, forehead pressed to her shoulder between pushes.
Then a single, piercing wail. A cry so sharp and alive that the air in the room cracked open and remade itself.
Rio’s face lit up on camera. She gasped, covering her mouth. Her eyes were red, spilling over instantly.
Agatha collapsed back into the bed, chest heaving, her lips trembling.
The nurse brought over the tiny, pink, squirming miracle wrapped in a hospital blanket and placed him gently on Agatha’s chest.
“He’s here,” Rio whispered, barely able to speak.
Agatha’s arms curled protectively around him, her hand cradling the back of his head. “Hi, baby,” she breathed. “Hi… Nicky…”
The baby quieted at the sound of her voice, curling into the curve of her body like he’d been searching for her all his life.
Rio reached out, brushing one impossibly small hand. Her fingers trembled. “He’s so small,” she whispered, eyes locked on the perfect boy in Agatha’s arms.
Agatha looked straight at the camera, voice thick with awe and exhaustion. “He’s so perfect.”
Rio nodded, leaning in closer. “Hey kid… it’s your moms. And we just met you! Mommy and I are already madly, stupidly, endlessly in love with you."
⸻
Later, in the soft blue glow of early morning, Rio sat in the rocking chair by the window. Her eyes were puffy from crying, and Nicky was asleep in her arms, swaddled like a secret.
She looked down at him, wonder in every breath.
“I don’t even know how to hold my heart this gently,” she murmured. “But here he is.”
Off-camera, Lilia sniffled loudly. “You look like you were made for this.”
Rio shook her head, smiling through tears. “I wasn’t. But he made me ready.”
A knock at the door. It creaked open slowly.
Wanda entered first, clutching flowers and a “Welcome, Baby” balloon. Behind her, Billy and Tommy peeked in, both wide-eyed.
Wanda took one look at the baby in Agatha’s arms and gasped. “He’s so cute,” she whispered.
Billy stepped closer, tugging on her sleeve. “Is that our cousin?”
Tommy whispered reverently, “He’s so small…”
Later, Alice and Jen showed up with two tote bags of snacks, three packs of tissues, and absolutely no chill.
“Why is he already better looking than me?" Alice wailed dramatically.
Jen, already tearing up, pointed at Nicky’s sleeping face. “Look at him. He’s already got cheekbones, what the hell.”
Sunlight poured across the hospital floor, the room had quieted, everyone gone for a coffee break or a nap. Nicky was sleeping on Agatha’s chest, rising and falling with each breath she took.
Rio angled the camera gently, zooming in as if the moment might vanish if she breathed too loud.
“This,” she whispered, “is the moment I will replay every day. This is so much more inside me now.”
Three days later, Rio stood beside the car seat in the hospital lobby, brow furrowed as she wrestled with the buckle.
“Okay, so you’re going to sit here, very still, and we’re going to take you home, okay?” she muttered to Nicky. “Don’t do anything wild. Like… cry.”
“He’s a literal newborn,” Agatha reminded her, amused.
“Exactly. Very unpredictable.”
Once secured, Agatha leaned down and took Nicky’s hand. Her voice turned soft.
“This is it, Nicky. The beginning of the rest of your life. You’re coming home.”
The nursery was painted in soft sage green and pastel yellow, with cream curtains and a rocking rabbit nightlight casting golden stars across the ceiling. Stuffed animals lined the shelves like an audience.
Nicky was asleep in his crib, his tiny hand curled near his face. Agatha and Rio stood over him in quiet awe.
Rio looked to the camera, voice catching. “You made us moms.”
Agatha, eyes glistening, nodded. “And you made this world better just by being in it.”
⸻
The old countryside chapel looked like something out of a storybook — nestled between wild lavender fields and crowned by swaying cypress trees. The morning light slanted through high arched windows, warm and golden, painting the pews with gentle sunbeams.
Inside, rows of friends and chosen family filled the wooden pews. Wanda and her twins sat near the front, Alice perched beside them, dabbing her eyes already. Jen waved a handheld fan and whispered inappropriate jokes under her breath. A handmade floral wreath rested beside the baptismal basin at the front — woven with rosemary, baby’s breath, and small lavender sprigs. Above it all, a banner fluttered softly, “Welcome to the World, Nicky.”
From the back of the chapel, the camera zoomed gently into frame, catching Agatha as she stepped into view.
She was radiant—not in a glamorous, poised way—but in the way someone looks when their arms are full of joy. She carried Nicky on her hip, clad in a soft cream onesie with tiny wooden buttons. His booties had lace on them. Rio, standing beside them in a navy suit, was currently tugging at the bootie lace.
Agatha leaned toward the camera, her voice soft but mischievous.
“Hey kid…” she whispered, “it’s your moms. And today, we’re officially introducing you to the world. And possibly getting you very slightly damp.”
Rio glanced sideways at Nicky, deadpan. “You look like a loaf of bread. A very holy loaf.”
Nicky squealed.
At the front stood Lilia during the ceremony, cloaked in white robes with a stole embroidered with winding green vines and stars. Her hair was adorned with a few pressed daisies.
“We gather here today,” she began, smiling gently, “to welcome Nicky into a world that already loves him. A world that waited, hoped, and screamed into the sky for him. A world made softer by his arrival.”
In the front row, Wanda sniffled.
“Why is she already making me cry?” she whispered, snatching a tissue from Billy.
Lilia dipped her fingers into the water, cupped from a nearby spring, and gently touched Nicky’s forehead. The baby blinked, then gave a radiant grin as though the water had tickled him.
“May you always walk in truth,” Lilia said softly, “speak in kindness, and dance in rebellion.”
A warm ripple of laughter passed through the room. Nicky let out a squeal, like he understood the assignment.
After the ceremony, the chapel dimmed. In the center of the room, a single candle flickered—the flame of intention. Each guest approached it, lighting a smaller taper and whispering something into the still air.
Alice lit hers first. “I hope you love books and weird snacks,” she said, then placed it in the sand-filled holder.
Jen stepped up. “I hope you cry at movies and never at people.”
Wanda’s voice shook as she whispered: “I hope you always find magic where others forget to look.”
Then Billy and Tommy together, their tapers glowing: “We hope you become a superhero or a weird science guy, or both!”
The room shimmered with quiet hope.
Behind the chapel, the garden had been transformed into a fairyland. Picnic blankets covered the grass. White streamers hung from low trees. Balloons danced lazily in the breeze.
At the center of the long picnic table sat a bunny-shaped cake, surrounded by platters of finger food and fruit skewers. Senior Scratchy slept soundly in a woven basket with a pink ribbon tied around one ear.
Agatha wandered through the garden, Nicky perched on her hip again, gumming the corner of a juice box straw.
“That’s your rabbit,” she said conversationally. “Technically he’s mine, but now he’s yours. He bites Alice sometimes. So, you’ll get along.”
From the other side of the lawn, Alice yelled, “I heard that!"
Nicky let out a delighted shriek.
Later, a circle of blankets had formed a kind of fort beneath the trees. Wanda’s twins flanked Nicky, now propped up between pillows.
Rio knelt before them dramatically, her eyes narrowed.
“Okay, kid,” she whispered. “This is called, The Invisible Fart.”
She took a deep breath — then released the most exaggerated, fake fart noise anyone had ever heard. She fell backward, arms flailing, eyes wide in mock horror.
There was a beat of silence.
Then, from Nicky, a loud, wheezy giggle.
His first laugh.
The garden exploded in cheers. Agatha clapped both hands over her mouth, tears springing to her eyes.
“He’s got my sense of humor,” she said, laughing through her sobs. “We’re doomed.”
As the day began to cool and the lavender haze deepened, everyone gathered one last time. The golden hour wrapped the garden in soft light, like a blessing in itself.
Agatha held Nicky in her arms, his head resting sleepily on her shoulder. Rio stood beside her, an arm wrapped tightly around her waist.
Lilia faced them all, her voice low.
“We bless him not because he needs it,” she said, “but because we do, because we are better people when we love him.”
⸻
Back at home, the camera was quiet. The nursery glowed in the moonlight. The mobile above the crib twirled slowly.
Nicky was fast asleep, tucked against a plush moon-shaped pillow. His lips puffed out slightly. His tiny fingers curled into his blanket.
Agatha and Rio sat side by side on the nursery floor, exhausted but blissful. They leaned against the crib rails, watching him like people who had witnessed a miracle.
Rio reached over and brushed her thumb under Agatha’s eye.
They leaned into each other as lullaby music began to play. The screen faded to black, leaving the nursery glowing behind it.
Text on screen:
To be blessed is to be loved, and to love you is the easiest thing we’ve ever done.
⸻
The living room smelled faintly of lavender lotion and mashed bananas. Toys littered the rug like confetti. It was a late morning in early autumn. Rio was crouched behind the tripod, whispering to the camera like she was narrating a wildlife documentary.
“Okay, kid… any minute now. The prophecy foretold this moment.”
Agatha entered the frame with half a piece of toast in hand, her curls unbrushed, pajama pants tucked into mismatched socks. “The prophecy also said you’d sleep past six. Lies. All of it.”
But then they saw him. Nicky, their little boy, their drooly, bright-eyed boy, standing at the edge of the coffee table—wobbling with determination.
He let go.
One step.
Then another.
And then—plop.
Rio gasped. Agatha dropped the toast.
“He walked!” she cried, scooping him up even as he giggled from the floor. “You saw that, right? I’m not hallucinating from lack of caffeine?”
Rio just pressed her palms to her cheeks and whispered, “This is it. This is the beginning of the end. He’s mobile.”
Later that week, on a quiet evening in Nicky’s nursery, something even bigger happened.
He was babbling in his crib, legs kicking rhythmically as Rio changed his diaper and Agatha thumbed through a picture book beside him. Just noise at first—until it wasn’t.
“Mam—ma,” he said.
Clear as day. Small and soft, like a gift.
Rio froze mid-wipe. “…Did you just?”
Agatha looked up sharply. “Say it again, baby. Say mama.”
“Mama.”
Rio burst into quiet tears, gently laying her forehead against his belly. “Let the record show,” she said, grinning through it, “I win.”
Agatha laughed, though her own eyes shimmered. “He said your name first. That’s fine. It’s okay. I’m not gonna cry. I’m totally crying.”
Their life had been full of firsts, but this one rang like a bell through their hearts. It echoed in every hallway and settled in every photo frame.
The first wild mess came not long after.
They had tried to make it special. Agatha had steamed organic peas. Rio had dressed Nicky in a brand-new bib. The camera was rolling.
But Nicky had other plans.
Within seconds, he’d plunged both hands into the bowl and smeared the green mush across his cheeks. He flung a fistful at the fridge and let out a high-pitched squeal of delight. Peas landed in Agatha’s hair. Rio’s left cheek now had a baby handprint in green.
“Can't say I didn't see this coming,” Agatha said, deadpan, wiping pea off her glasses.
“He’s a genius,” Rio replied, laughing. “A bib-defying, spoon-hating genius.”
And honestly? He was.
⸻
The plan was simple, pack the car, drive to the coast, introduce their son to the sea. What could possibly go wrong?
They were twenty minutes into the trip when Agatha gasped. “Did you pack the sunscreen?”
Rio’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “I thought you packed the sunscreen.”
A long silence followed. Nicky, blissfully unaware, snored in the back seat beneath a sunhat that drooped over his eyes.
“Oh, god.” Agatha murmured, thumbing through the diaper bag in vain.
But the moment they arrived at the shore, all of that worry dissolved into salt air and light.
The ocean glittered, the gulls cried overhead. Nicky—eyes wide, limbs flailing with joy—made a beeline (well, a baby crawl-line) for the wet sand. His laughter rose above the crashing waves, the kind of sound that makes everything else in the world feel small.
Rio attempted to build a sandcastle. Nicky destroyed it gleefully as Agatha tried to shade him with a rented beach umbrella that wouldn’t cooperate.
“He keeps trying to eat the ocean,” Rio said, spitting sand from her mouth after a rogue wave caught her mid-crouch.
“That’s because you gave him seaweed chips,” Agatha replied. “He thinks everything here is edible.”
Sure enough, Nicky stuffed a fistful of damp sand into his mouth with a look of pure betrayal. “He’ll have grit in his diapers for a week,” Rio muttered.
Later that night, Agatha sat beside a snoozing Nicky, gently combing sand out of his curls. Rio lay on the couch moaning like she’d just been through battle.
“I told you SPF 15 wasn’t enough,” Agatha said, applying aloe with quiet glee.
“I look like a tomato,” Rio whispered dramatically.
“You’re banned from beach planning for life.” Agatha warned.
In the nursery, Nicky slept with his stuffed bunny tucked against his chest, both of them still smelling faintly of ocean breeze.
Rio leaned against the crib and sighed, rubbing her sunburnt arms. They sat on the floor together, backs to the wall, eyes on their sleeping boy.
“He’s growing so fast,” Agatha whispered.
“Too fast,” Rio agreed.
⸻
It began, like most disasters do, with something small.
The three of them were at their local grocery store on a Saturday afternoon, picking up oat milk, baby wipes, and the only crackers Nicky currently tolerated (the ones shaped like tiny whales). The kind cashier knew them by name.
They were in aisle four, the snack section, when it happened.
“No, honey,” Agatha said gently, guiding Nicky’s tiny hand away from the shelf. “We’re not opening the box here. We have to pay for it first.”
Nicky stared up at her, wide-eyed, the gears visibly turning. Then he screamed.
Not a little protest. Not a grumble. A full-throttle, red-faced, throat-shredding baby banshee wail.
“Oh no,” Rio muttered, eyes darting around as the world slowed down. Other customers turned their heads. A granola dad in flip-flops raised an eyebrow. Somewhere, a barista paused mid-foam.
Nicky arched his back like a possessed gummy worm, threw his whale crackers on the floor, and launched into full meltdown mode.
“Okay. Okay, we’ve trained for this,” Agatha said through gritted teeth. “Remember the book. Remember calm redirection. ”
“I remember the chapter where it said ‘don’t die inside,’” Rio said, crouching down to retrieve the crushed crackers and her dignity.
Agatha shifted Nicky onto her hip while gently swaying. “Okay, sweetheart,” she said softly, “I know you’re upset, but you can’t always have what you want. Even when you yell, especially when you yell.”
Nicky wailed in response, but slightly less dramatically.
Rio, meanwhile, grabbed a small bag of veggie chips and whispered to the cashier, “Emergency bribe. Judge me later.”
They checked out fast. Nicky cried all the way to the car. Agatha hummed lullabies that didn’t work. Rio offered snacks, stickers, and eventually a dramatic reading of The Very Hungry Caterpillar in her best monster voice.
Finally, Nicky hiccupped once. Twice. And then went quiet.
Rio let out a breath. “He’s asleep. We survived. ”
“He turned into a tiny demon, and gentle parenting is definitely not for me.”
⸻
Agatha sat in front of the camera, hair in a messy bun, sipping wine with a tired but amused look.
“Hey kid… today you screamed like the world was ending over a box of crackers. Honestly? I get it, we’ve all been there.”
Rio appeared behind her, dramatically miming a slow-motion collapse onto the couch.
“But even in your most chaotic moments,” Agatha said, turning serious, “—we’re here. To teach you how to name your feelings, to let you have them, and to remind you that you’re safe.”
Rio raised her glass from the couch. “To our first public meltdown.”
Agatha smiled. “May the next one happen far, far away from aisle four.”
⸻
By noon, the backyard was unrecognizable.
Their place bloomed a handmade, pastel-colored paradise: rainbow streamers hung from tree branches like soft vines, fairy lights twinkled along the wooden fence, and a giant felt banner that read " ONE" swung gently in the breeze between two old orange trees. At the center of it all stood a picnic table covered in finger foods, tiny paper plates shaped like stars, and one very large bunny piñata bobbing above a pile of hand-wrapped presents.
Nicky sat on a blanket in the middle of the scene, crown of felt stars sliding down his forehead, onesie proudly declaring, I’m One! Let’s Have Fun! He blinked slowly, overwhelmed by color and movement, but his little fists clapped anyway. Every so often, he shrieked with joy and flung himself forward, barely catching his balance with his wobbly toddler arms.
The camera flicked on.
Rio , holding it selfie-style, spun slowly to show off the backyard, the decorations, and her own proud, glitter-smudged face.
“Hey kid… it’s your moms. And it’s been exactly 365 days since you blew up our hearts.”
From somewhere off-camera, Agatha’s voice rang out, dry as ever:
“…and our sleep schedules.”
Rio laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Today we par-tay!”
The gate creaked open.
First through the archway was Wanda, sunglasses perched in her hair, carrying a cupcake tower in one arm and a twin boy under each of the others—Billy and Tommy, both in tiny bow ties and suspenders.
Behind her came Alice and Jen, struggling with what appeared to be a wrapped toddler-sized Lightning McQueen plush car and a suspiciously clinking bag that may or may not have contained bourbon.
“I baked these!” Jen declared, lifting a tin of cupcakes. “The frosting is plant-based and infused with—”
“Bourbon?” Alice cut in, hopeful.
“Lavender,” Jen replied. “But now that you mention it…”
Then came Lilia, floating in like something out of a Jane Austen novel, holding a mason jar labeled “For the Time Capsule.” She kissed Nicky’s head and whispered something in Sicilian.
⸻
Nicky had barely made it two feet across the yard before the bubble machine began sputtering. At first it worked beautifully—soft orbs filled the air like floating pearls, catching the light in rainbow prisms. Nicky squealed, trying to eat one midair.
Then it sputtered.
Then it hissed.
Then it exploded , spraying a violent burst of foam directly into the finger foods.
Rio, ducking a bubble to the eye, wiped foam from her arm.
The camera caught Nicky waddling directly into the bubbly mess, triumphant, arms lifted high. Wanda, laughing, rescued him just in time to prevent him from licking the bubble wand.
“It’s soap, sweetheart. Not a snack.”
⸻
At the center of the garden stood a tiny table with a first birthday cake shaped like a cloud. Fluffy white frosting, pastel stars, tiny edible glitter moons. Everyone circled around, chanting softly:
“Smash… smash… smash…”
Rio knelt beside him. “Don’t be shy, baby. Destroy it.”
Nicky poked once. Twice.
Then he punched the cake, frosting flying. A beat of silence followed—before he grabbed a chunk of the sky-colored layer and shoved it into his mouth with a squeal.
Agatha gasped from behind the camera. “He is his mother’s son.”
Alice, also filming, shouted: “Which one?!”
Agatha and Rio, together, without hesitation:
“Yes.”
After the sugar high wore off, Nicky curled on a checkered blanket in a frosting coma. He kicked lazily at the grass, a toy maraca forgotten beside him.
Then, slowly, he pointed.
To Senior Scratchy , lounging nearby in a toddler stroller wearing a miniature party hat and looking deeply over it.
“Buh… bunny.”
Silence. Agatha froze. Rio dropped the juice box in her hand.
“Did he just—?”
The backyard erupted into squeals, clapping, and mild chaos. Billy did a somersault. Wanda began to cry.
Senior Scratchy blinked slowly and turned away, unimpressed. Nicky grinned and burped frosting.
⸻
Late afternoon brought the quiet. Nicky, now shirtless and his body full of baby powder, sat in both his moms’ laps, giggling sleepily as they read cards aloud from friends and family.
Agatha opened one from Lilia and smiled.
“It says, May you always speak your truth, even when your voice shakes.”
Rio opened one from Jen, raising a brow.
“This one says, ‘May you break hearts kindly… and only slightly.’ Sounds like your auntie Jen’s been through it .”
Billy and Tommy’s card was scrawled in crayon.
“Ours says, Don’t eat glue."
⸻
As dusk settled over the backyard, the fairy lights flickered on. Nicky was asleep in Agatha’s arms, his face half-smushed against her shoulder.
Rio wrapped a blanket around both of them and kissed Nicky’s forehead, then leaned into Agatha, exhaling slowly.
The camera, propped on a nearby table, captured the moment in soft golden light.
Agatha, barely above a whisper, “One whole year of you.”
Rio smiled, eyes glassy, “You gave us a thousand tiny reasons to fall in love with every single day.”
They looked at each other, quietly undone.
Together, they both whispered.
“Happy birthday, kid."
⸻
By the end credits, various video clips flashes in a montage style, playing over a lullaby version of “Moon River”
It shows a sleepy baby in bunny pajamas, chewing on a book, Rio and Agatha, fast asleep on the couch, Nicky curled between them like a sleepy starfish. Then Senior Scratchy hopping dramatically through torn birthday wrapping paper.
Everyone—family, friends, a few neighbors—dancing barefoot in the backyard at dusk, as bubbles rise into the darkening sky.
It finally fades to black and there a text on screen:
To our Nicky,
You are every sunrise we didn’t know we were waiting for.