No one ever tells you before you get engaged, but planning a wedding is a full-time job. You need a venue, caterers, floral arrangements, a DJ, rings, and a really, really nice dress. I don’t understand how any married couple in the history of the world has ever managed to pull it off, let alone all of them.

But, ignore me—I’m just whining about getting to plan the most perfect day of my life with the most perfect man I’ve ever met. The work was hectic, sure, but at the end of it, I’d get to be married to Ashton Swann. If I had to organize a wedding on the moon, I’d do it. Anything to be with him.

Our efforts were already paying off in spades; we’d booked a vineyard just a few miles outside San Bravado, chartered a small fleet of private jets to fly our guests down, and I’d purchased maybe the most beautiful dress I’d ever laid eyes on. I don’t want to give too much away, but I can tell you that it’s white. Shocker, I know.

You know what else makes planning a wedding hard? Having a fiancé who’s busier than ever at work. But I guess that was kind of, technically, my fault.

Remember how I was evicted from my apartment because some developer had bought up the land? Remember how I was given twenty-four hours to move myself and my baby son out, and I almost had to quit my job and start over in Oxnard? Remember how gentrification nearly ruined my happily ever after?

Well, Ashton was having none of that. In the months since we’d moved in together, he’d begun to quiz me on what life was like renting in San Bravado; he took copious notes on rising rent costs, developer and landlord rights, and my impressions of how the neighborhood had changed since I was a kid. He studied up on the areas where I was fuzzy on details, until at last, he’d complied an almost biblical amount of information on the town’s housing crisis.

Once Ashton was satisfied that he comprehended the housing crisis as well as—if not better than—the urban planners and local government, he launched an initiative backed by Swann Innovations, entitled Home Stay.

I won’t bore you with the intricate details, of which there are many, but in essence, Home Stay bought up small city blocks, designated them as low-rent and rent-controlled, and leased them out to residents who fell below a certain income bracket and were intent on staying San Bravado for a significant amount of time.

Home Stay was heralded as a phenomenal success, and though it had only been up and running for about four months now, it was already billed as a game-changer in the housing market. Many other companies in town were already following some version of Ashton’s example, meaning that the city of my childhood would be saved.

So, sure, his workload had quadrupled. But could I really fault him for it? He was a real-life, honest-to-God superhero. No longer was he following in his father’s troubled footsteps, pushing his feelings down while making heaps of money. No, he was working to improve other people’s quality of life, people like me (well, at least, past me).

I was so proud of him.

Fast-forward to a Monday morning just like any other Monday morning. By the time I had awoken, Ashton was already off at work, as usual. He always left me a small note in perfect handwriting on the kitchen counter to apologize for leaving early, and to say that he loved me to the moon and back.

After about ten of these notes, I’d joked one night that he could lay off; he didn’t have to feel obliged to write an elaborate card every time, but he’d shaken his head and insisted that penning them made him happy. Apparently, my wonderful fiancé liked to imagine me waking up to a tangible reminder of his eternal love.

“It’s selfish, really,” he’d said. His words, not mine.

In any case, I was about halfway through that morning’s note when I realized that something was wrong with my stomach—it was cramping, hard, and I felt nauseous. The feeling had arisen out of nowhere, and actually, when I thought about it, the feeling was…familiar.

Oh. Oh!

I grabbed the tablet on the counter and quickly ordered a few items using the delivery service app. Biting my fingernails, I bounced up and down on my toes as I watched the app indicate, every couple of minutes, my driver’s progress.

At last, a call from the doorman came, asking if he should let up this stranger with a package.

“Yes, yes,” I replied hastily. “Let him up.”

Minutes later, a teenage boy was standing in my elevator, plastic bag in hand. I didn’t give him a spare second to marvel at the apartment, but rather briskly thanked him with a twenty-dollar bill for his time. Once he was headed back down, I dug my hand into the plastic bag and pulled out a pregnancy test.

Hands trembling, I walked towards the bathroom, where I took a deep breath, peed, and waited. Exactly three minutes later, I scrutinized the test, and watched as a small, pink plus sign emerged on the bar.

“Oh my God,” I breathed. “I’m…pregnant.”

I was about to pick up my phone and dial Ashton when it occurred to me that perhaps I should hold onto the news just a little longer. How many times would I get to tell him that we were going to have a baby? I needed to make this announcement count.

Hearing Levi had just woken up, I strode to his room, picked him up, and prepped him for the day. We were due to do a shoot at the Swann Innovations studios, a commercial for a new line of organic, cotton clothes for babies and toddlers. Levi had become something of a baby celebrity; his image appeared on Swann products across the nation. At first, I’d been hesitant to put him in the spotlight again, but it was obvious to even the casual observer that he loved filming the commercials; Levi positively lit up when the cameras landed on him, and if it made my son happy, then it was good enough for me.

We were on our way to the studio in no time. My toe tapped nervously on the gas pedal, anxiety and excitement jittering my every nerve. In my head, I ran over potential ways to reveal the big news to Ashton. Balloons? Roses? No, no, it had to be a little more original than that.

I was one street over from the Swann Innovations building when it hit me. I knew exactly what I was going to do. Triumphant, I picked Levi up from the back seat, and placed him on the curb. He’d begun walking in recent months, and was already pretty light on his toes; he had all the makings of a gifted dancer or football player.

Together, we entered the building, and made our way up to the studio. Levi ran ahead, as if sensing the excitement that was to come. When we arrived on set, Ashton was deep in talks with the director about some angle or lighting choice.

“Dada!” Levi squealed, and Ashton immediately looked up from his conversation.

“Come here, Levi!” he hollered across the cavernous space, his face beaming with pride and love.

He knelt, arms flung open wide, and Levi toddled over at top speed. Ashton wrapped him in a warm embrace, kissing the top of his head and praising him. Ashton had made a habit of doing so any chance he got, and I couldn’t be prouder of him.

“You ready to film today?” Ashton asked.

Levi nodded eagerly and exclaimed, “Yeah! Yeah!”

“Okay, good. Run back over to Mommy while I get everything ready for you.”

Levi obliged, and returned to me, his rosy red cheeks pushed up by an enormous grin.

“Mama, Mama!” he crowed. “It’s camera Dada!”

I laughed and patted his head. He called shooting days “camera Dada” days, because Ashton was in all the commercials with him. I too relished these days, when I got to watch the two most important men in my life laugh for hours on end. As an added bonus, Levi was always exhausted at the end of a shoot, which meant he slept without disturbance the whole night, giving me and Ashton plenty of time to do anything but sleep.

While Ashton chatted with the director, it was my chance to set up the big reveal. I pulled Levi close, and whispered an instruction in his ear.

“Do you understand?” I asked.

He nodded the way that kids do—using their full head in big, dramatic arcs.

Just then, Ashton called over to me, “Hey, we’re ready to start filming,” and to Levi, “You all set, buddy?”

Levi did another big nod, and ran back to Ashton. Man, all that kid did these days was run.

I followed behind him, moving closer to the set while Ashton lifted Levi into his arms, and turned to face camera and find his light. The director called “action,” and the cameras began to roll.

Ashton delivered a few lines about the new line of kids’ clothing, before at last turning to Levi, and asking, “What do you think about the clothes, kiddo?”

Per the script, Levi was supposed to respond, “Love them, Dada!” Instead, he crowed, “Baby brother sister!”

“What?” Ashton asked, confused.

“Baby brother! Or baby sister!” Levi repeated, triumphant in his delivery.

The cameras kept rolling, and Ashton’s head swiveled to face me.

“Harley?” he asked, his voice trembling.

I smiled and nodded, tears of joy beginning to roll down my cheeks. I walked towards Ashton, disregarding the cameras, not waiting for the director to yell “cut.” Before I knew it, I was in the shot, under the glaring white lights, a mere foot or so from Ashton, who continued to hold a giggling Levi.

“Is that true?” Ashton whispered. “Is he going to have a new sibling? Are we…are we having a baby?”

“Yeah,” I managed to say through the haze of tears. “We are.”

Ashton whooped with delight, and cried, “We’re having a baby!”

The crew erupted into cheers as Ashton pulled me into an embrace. The three of us—Ashton, Levi and I—pressed together, the picture of a perfect family, as the cameras recorded the moment, preserving our joy for eternity.

“I love you, Harley,” Ashton whispered.

I tearfully replied, “I love you, too.”