The late afternoon sun spilled across the backyard, bathing the garden in hues of gold and amber. Lavender swayed in the breeze, and bees hovered lazily over the budding roses. It was one of those rare afternoons when time seemed to pause—when silence carried more meaning than conversation and the laughter of children could be heard like music echoing softly through the trees.
Ava settled into the weathered garden bench with a sigh, one hand resting gently over her rounded belly. Beside her, June brought two tall glasses of iced mint tea, placing one beside Ava before lowering herself onto the bench with a little grunt and a wry smile.
"Whoever said sitting down was easy never had a toddler and a healing pelvis," June muttered.
Ava laughed, her fingers tightening slightly over her stomach. "Or a third-trimester belly and a bladder the size of a teaspoon."
They both sipped their drinks and stared out across the lawn, where Thomas Harper and Clara toddled after bubbles Jamie was blowing, giggling each time one burst mid-air. Hank leaned against the porch railing, watching them with that quiet, loving expression June had long since memorized.
June turned to Ava. "Do you ever just… watch them and wonder how we got here?"
Ava smiled, her eyes misting slightly. "All the time. I think about where we were just a few years ago—lost in our own pain. And now we're here. Whole. Healing. In love. Growing things."
June rest a hand over Ava's. "You look radiant."
"You always say that when I'm swollen and sweaty."
"Because it's true," June said. "You're carrying light."
Ava swallowed against the sudden emotion rising in her chest. "You're the one who amazes me. I see you with Clara—how you speak to her, hold her, love her… after everything you went through. After thinking it might never happen."
June's gaze dropped to her hands, folded over her knee. "Sometimes I still don't believe it. Like I'm going to wake up and she'll just be a dream."
"She's not. She's yours. You and Hank… you earned her with every tear, every hope you dared whisper out loud."
There was a pause between them, filled only with the sound of children's laughter and the soft breeze rustling the garden leaves.
"I worry I'll mess her up," June said quietly.
Ava looked at her, full of warmth. "You will. And I will too. We'll forget things. Lose our patience. Say the wrong thing at the wrong time. But then we'll love them even harder, and that's what they'll remember."
June exhaled, as if she'd been holding that breath for months.
"I didn't think I'd ever have this," she whispered. "A family. A daughter. A friend like you."
Ava reached out and took her hand. "We saved each other, June.In letters. In conversations. In silence. We're still saving each other."
They sat for a while, just holding hands, watching the golden day fold into itself.
Thomas ran up first, cheeks flushed and grinning. "Mama!Auntie! Clara chased a bubble and fell on her bum!"
June sprang up instantly, her instincts now sharpened to a mother's edge, but Hank called from the grass, "She's fine! Just a startled tumble. I've got her."
June hesitated, then sat again, laughing breathlessly. "Every cry still makes my heart stop."
"You'll grow into it," Ava said, smiling knowingly. "The fear doesn't go away. You just learn how to carry it differently."
Later, as the sun dipped lower and shadows stretched long across the lawn, Jamie joined them with a plate of peach slices and chilled grapes. He offered one to Ava, who accepted it with a kiss on his hand.
June watched them quietly, her eyes soft.
"You two still glow around each other," she said.
Ava blushed. "It's not always easy. But we fight fair. We listen. We write things down when we can't say them out loud."
Jamie chuckled. "Letters under pillows are still a thing in our house."
June turned to Hank, who was now walking across the grass with Clara in his arms, her chubby hands clutched around his neck.
"Do you think we'll be like them?" she asked when he approached.
Hank kissed her temple. "We already are."
As the evening wound down and the first stars blinked into the dusky sky, the two families sat under string lights and shared stories and slices of late-summer pie. The children eventually drifted off, Clara nestled in June's arms, and Thomas snuggled between Jamie and Ava, one hand resting protectively on her belly.
"Do you think she'll be like him?" Jamie whispered, running his fingers through Thomas's hair.
"No," Ava said. "She'll be her own wonder."
And as the moon rose over the oak tree at the edge of the yard—the same tree where Ava had once buried letters filled with hope and longing—it stood taller than ever, its roots deep, its branches full of the lives it had witnessed, the love it continued to shelter.