I had always prided myself on being a good mother, though I wasn’t perfect. Some mornings, the pancakes were a little too crispy around the edges, but everyone had something warm on their plates. As for the laundry, well, it followed a flexible schedule—if you needed something clean, you had to remind me before the last pair of socks disappeared. But I loved my kids and my life, even when it felt overwhelming.
Oliver worked late most nights, so it was just me managing dinner, bath time, and bedtime stories. And honestly? I didn’t mind. I liked it—most of the time.
One evening, after wrestling the kids into bed—one stuffed animal rescue mission and two water refills later—I walked into the kitchen, ready to collapse. Oliver was already there, sitting at the counter, his laptop open with an excited look on his face.
“Sweetheart,” he said, grinning like a kid unveiling a surprise. “I have a present for you!”
I eyed him warily. The last time he said that, I ended up with a robotic vacuum that beeped every time I left socks on the floor.
He slid the laptop toward me. “Look.”
I leaned in, and my breath caught. On the screen was an enrollment page for a professional pastry course I had dreamed about for years.
“Oliver… This is amazing.”
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