When Nate asked—no, demanded—that I come out to his place tonight for Alden’s welcome home party, my insides basically melted like an ice cream cone—a freaking emotional ice cream cone—on a hot, summer day. And now, that sticky, feely-feels mess has me cycling through a riotous mass of emotions. At the forefront of them all is apprehension.

Coupled with a whole lot of reluctance.

Followed by a healthy dose of hesitation.

Pretty much, I’m nervous as fuck and have transformed into even more of a hot mess than usual. Which is saying a lot, because most days I feel lucky to leave the house in one piece. I was such a wreck heading into work this morning that even my mom picked up on it when I dropped Tatum off with her. I could tell from the major side-eye that she wanted to ask what had me wound so tight, but mercifully, she didn’t.

I managed to calm down a little when I realized Alden wasn’t there, but still, every worst-case scenario raced through my mind all day, leading me to make simple mistakes and mess up some orders. Finally, after the lunch rush, Carlos cut me early, and I rushed to pick up my little girl, seeking the comfort only her sweet toddler scent and cuddles can give me.

After eating a snack, we watched Trolls—again—before taking a nap together in my bed. Well, Tatum took a nap. I laid there and worried.

I mean, what if Tatum doesn’t like him? Hell, what if he doesn’t like her, because, holy shit, I don’t even know if he likes kids, much less wants one!

That would certainly make telling him the truth a whole lot harder. It wouldn’t stop me—made that mistake already—but gah, it would suck. At this point, my biggest concern is panicking and spilling the truth at his feet in front of everyone in some horrible nerve-induced word vomit.

I’m in the kitchen starting an early dinner—because Nate’s food is rarely edible—when Tatum yells out for me from somewhere in the apartment.

That’s her new thing. Hollering loudly enough for me to hear her instead of stopping what she’s doing and coming to speak to me. I’ve told her countless times that’s not how we talk to people. So, instead of replying, I go on about my business as if I hadn’t heard her at all. Mean, maybe. But…

Not even two minutes later, the sound of tiny feet padding across the carpet meets my ears. And then, a tug on my shirt tail. “Mama! Did you heard me?”

I pivot to face her, and when she extends her arms up toward me, I reach down and pick up her, depositing her into the countertop. “I did hear you, Tater Tot.”

She pouts. “Then why you not answer?”

“Why do you think?” I ask, with a smile in my voice. I don’t want her to think I’m scolding her when I’m only teaching.

“A’cause I didn’t come to you?”

“Bingo.” I boop her on the nose, and she giggles. “What’d you need?”

“I not remember,” she mutters, displeased to no end.

“It’ll come to you. Why don’t you go play while I cook?”

“I help?”

“Absolutely.” I set her back down onto the floor before pulling her step stool out of the laundry room. “Wanna help me mix?”

“Yes! I’m a good mixer! Da best!”

She stands patiently in front of her stool as she waits for further instruction. “You are. Let me get you something to stir with.” I grab her pink and red whisk that came in a Mommy-and-Me set I saw at Target. She also has her pint-sized apron and oven mitts. Yeah, I might’ve gone a little overboard the second she showed an interest in cooking—so much like her daddy.

I add our ingredients to the bowl: one cup of shredded, skinless rotisserie chicken, one cup of mixed garden veggies, and three-quarters of a cup of cream of chicken.

“All right, get to mixing!”

She hops up onto her stool, and I stand behind her, bracing her while also supervising her mixing. Once she has everything mostly folded together, I sprinkle it all with poultry seasoning and pepper and instruct her to give it one last stir.

Then I sprinkle a little flour onto the countertop, which Tatum thinks is hilarious. Through stitches of laughter, she informs me I’ve made a big mess, but I only smile. Once she gets her wits about her, she helps me roll out the store-bought crescent dough. I grab a glass down from the cabinet and use it to cut out six perfect circles of dough. I lay each one in its own spot in the muffin tin.

“Hey, can you do Mama another favor?”

She nods.

“In the drawer right next to the fridge, there’s an ice cream scooper. Can you grab it for me?”

Another nod.

With the scooper in hand, I guide her through adding the creamy chicken goodness on top of each circle of dough. “What’s we do with those?” Tatum asks, gesturing to the little leftover strips of crescent dough.

“Ah!” I exclaim. “Those are the most important part.” We place two strips on top of each scoop of chicken and then step back to admire our handiwork. “Well, Tater Tot, nothin’ left to do but to bake it now.”

With the fun part over, Tatum retreats to her room, and I slide the pot pie muffins into the oven, setting the timer.

I decide to make the best of wait time and paint my toenails. Anything to keep me busy—to keep my mind occupied. And when I’m done, I paint my daughter’s too.

The timer goes off right as I finish polishing Tatum’s little piggies. “Stay here,” I tell her, knowing she’d be sad if she smeared her polish. I walk to the kitchen mostly on my heels, with my toes spread apart—I’m sure I look nutso, but hey, I don’t want my pretty pink polish to get messed up either.

After dishing up one muffin for Tatum and two for myself, I cut up an apple and grab us each a piece of cheese. Dinner of champions, y’all. I carry our plates to the table and then make the short trek back to the living room to grab my girl.

Once we’ve both joined the clean plate club, as my mother would call it, I tell Tatum it’s time to get dressed to go to Uncle Nate’s. She pumps both of her little fists over her head and squeals, her excitement palpable. If only I were confident in tonight going off without a hitch. If only I had her childlike naivete. If only, if only, if only…

We go through the same song and dance of getting dressed like we always do…I lay out an outfit for Tatum, and she dresses herself anyway. Then, we compromise. Tonight, that leaves her wearing a rainbow tulle skirt and a neon pink graphic tee proclaiming a little kindness can change the world—and Lord knows that’s true. Her hair is styled into pigtails, with the right one sitting a smidge higher, with mismatched bows. Which is all too fitting when you take in her mismatched Converse as well.

Compared to her, in my white skinny jeans, casual gray knotted-front top and nude flats, I’m plain Jane and boring. In an effort to spice things up, I tease the crown of my hair and gather it into a messy, high ponytail. I coat my lashes in mascara, swipe some berry-colored gloss over my lips, and grab my olive-green slouchy cardigan because Nate keeps his house roughly the temperature of a walk-in fridge.

I throw an extra pair of panties and a pull-up into my bag for Tatum, along with her juice cup and a baggie of cinnamon Goldfish crackers. I start to holler for Tatum, but quickly clamp my lips shut, knowing it will undo my teaching her not to yell through the house. Instead, I set off in search of her, finding her in her bedroom packing her own bag. And—spoiler alert—it’s full of toys.

She turns her big doe eyes my way and sticks out her lower lip. “It won’t zip, Mama!”

“That’s because it’s too full. How about we pick three?”

“Four?” she hedges.

“Sure, four. But hurry, or we’re going to be late.”

Then again, maybe I should ask her to take her time. Hell, maybe I should call and say she’s sick. I’m sick. We need to be quarantined.

Sigh, I wish.

The drive to Nate’s house flies by, and before I know it, I’m pulling directly behind my parents’ car in front of his little blue Craftsman-style bungalow. By the looks of it, we’re one of the first to arrive or this little get-together is more intimate than I was led to believe.

I’m a bundle of nerves as Tatum and I walk up the little sidewalk leading to the porch. The door swings open before I even get a chance to knock, revealing Nate standing there with open arms, waiting for a hug from his niece.

He wastes no time scooping her up and twirling her in a big circle, the sound of her laughter beckoning to my parents, wherever they are inside. As soon as Nate sets her down, Nana and Popsie are there waiting to dote on her. It’s honestly like some sort of toddler receiving line, and at the end of it is Alden.