Page 103 of Hush, Little Baby

“Sounds good to me, sweetheart. Have you decided which ones you want to start with?”

“The bouncy balls, bracelets, and maybe one of the Chia Pets?”

“I think that’s a plan,” I tell him, smiling at his look of pure joy.

The grocery store takes half the time the craft store did. Charlie chooses a round Funfetti ice cream cake from the bakery’s freezer, and I have the old woman behind the counter write “Happy Birthday, Charlie” on the top of it. While she’s working on that, Charlie discovers a cake candle section and selects two sparkler candles—“2” and “6.” By the time we check out, our cart looks like a hungry, sugar-addicted kid’s daydream.

Back at the penthouse, Marta assists Charlie with setting out the craft kits on the dining table, while Elise plates our snack spread, and I double-check that all Charlie’s presents are accounted for.

I can’t help but smile at the balloons littering the first floor. I never instructed my housekeepers to do any decorating, but when we arrived home from shopping, we were greeted by balloons and streamers. Charlie got teary-eyed at the sight, and I mentally made a note to up their end-of-year bonuses.

Charlie chooses the friendship bracelet kit first. Predictable, but also a little heartbreaking, because of course he’d want to make something for me on a day meant to celebrate him.

The packaging is gaudy with teal and purple and pastel chaos, clearly aimed at preteen girls, but that doesn’t stop him from setting it down with reverent care on the table.

He’s all business, consulting the diagram on the back of the box and reading out the instructions with a concentration that is, honestly, adorable. “It’s got a clip,” he says, “for your wrist, so you don’t need a third person.” He glances up at me. “But maybe you can help me tie it when it’s done?”

“It would be an honor,” I tell him, and mean it.

I choose a mix of black and red and white, because “those are Daddy’s colors,” and Charlie spends at least five minutes agonizing between “galaxy” and “pastel rainbow” before picking both and splitting the difference. He picks out beads to spell “NIKO’S” for my bracelet and “BABY’S” for his.

Charlie’s tongue pokes out as he threads the floss through the plastic loom, working diligently. Every so often, he looks up to verify my progress, as if this is a race or maybe a trust exercise.

I finish my pattern first—a spiral of red and black, white letter beads for the name, and a plain silver bead for the apostrophe. I wrap it around his wrist, careful not to tie it too tightly. He holds his hand out at arm’s length like he’s been bedazzled by priceless jewelry rather than acrylic and nylon, then wiggles his fingers.

“Pretty,” he says, with quiet awe.

Holding my own left wrist out for the favor to be returned, I ask, “Do I get mine now, too?”

“Yeah.”

His hands are clumsy but gentle as he knots the ends and snips the stray floss. The “BABY’S” beads are a bit off-center, the color pattern a little wild, but when I open and close my fist, the thing fits perfectly.

He’s watching my face for a verdict, and I make it official. “It’s absolutely perfect, Charlie. Thank you.”

He beams at me, basking in the praise. I cup his chin and tilt his face up, just so I can press my lips to his forehead. “I love it. I love you,” I whisper, and he swallows the words like medicine he’s been craving for years.

Charlie’s got the bouncy ball kit out with the lid popped before I can even clear the spent floss from the table.

“You have to pick your own mold,” he instructs, lining up the plastic spheres. “There’s a star-shaped one, a regular one, and a heart.”

“Which do you think Daddy should use?”

He hums, gaze flicking between molds. “Stars are for wishes and hearts are for love.”

“Which one means ‘I would burn the world down for you’?”

Charlie giggles, then shyly nudges the heart across the table. “This one, I think.”

“Good choice.” I go for the pastel ball powder, shake it into the mold as the instructions say, and Charlie does the same, selecting bright blue and purple to make a galaxy swirl.

They take some time to set, so we make another one together, and when that’s done, the others are ready to be taken out of their molds.

“I wanna see how high we can bounce them,” Charlie says, palming his newly-unmolded bouncy ball like it’s a gem. And who would I be to deny him this? He looks at me with a dare in his eyes, then slaps the ball down onto the marble floor with a vigor that sends it ricocheting off the ceiling and careening into a bookcase, where it rattles around the shelves and sends a row of art monographs tumbling like dominoes.

He stares, frozen, but when I snort in amusement, the sound snaps him loose and he breaks up in a fit of post-carnage giggles.

“Oops,” he says, voice cracking with delight. “I think the kit underestimated the ‘super’ in ‘super bouncy.’”