I stand there beside the man who answered a crazy random Twitter date request, the man who brings me coffee, the man who holds my door open for me, the man who sends me flowers just because, the man who owns not half my heart but the whole thing. The man I know I want to grow old with, I want to have babies with, and I want to bitch about. He puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me to him, kissing my forehead. I wrap my arm around his waist. “I know this is crazy,” I start, and the tears and laughter come at the same time, “but we’re having a baby.”
