It’s been very difficult these last three months to not refer to Greyson as “the easy one.” It implies that Charlotte is the hard one, or as I might have called her a time or two or twenty—the bitch. (Relax! Her grandmother hates the sobriquet more than you ever will.)
But last night—to my astonishment—she folded her arms on my shoulder, nuzzled my neck, and cooed herself to sleep. My heart was stolen in an instant. Then love turned to fear. Fear led to jealousy. And jealousy led to hate—hate for every other man she would ever cuddle who wasn’t me. It was a senseless train of thought at best and a path to the dark side at worst.
So, instead of dwelling on my infant daughter’s future love life, I made her a silent promise. I promised that the day any one of those boys broke her heart, she needn’t worry about stealing mine anymore. It would already be hers to have for as long as she needed.