I came home a month early, dreaming of pasta, candles, and a warm embrace. Instead, I found two kids on my rug, strumming my ukulele like it was junk, and my husband looking like he’d seen a ghost.
“Kim? You’re early,” he said.
I always imagined a surprise return would be like a Hallmark movie—garlic in the air, soft music, a warm hug. But that dream popped the moment I stepped into the bedroom.
Two girls—maybe eleven—were camped on my Persian rug, wrecking my music notebooks and treating my ukulele like a toy.
“Mom said we could hang out here,” one said, unfazed.
“I live here,” I replied.
David rushed in, wide-eyed and panicked. “Let me explain…”
Turns out, he was babysitting for a co-worker, Julie, whose mom got sick. With no one else to help, he said yes—for a week.
“You’ve been gone six months,” he added. “I thought you’d understand.”
I didn’t—not at first. The house, once calm and quiet, became chaos. Jelly on my violin case nearly broke me.
Then one morning, Mila, the bold one, asked to hear me play. I let her. Soon she was humming along, perfectly in tune. Riley joined with the ukulele.
And just like that, we weren’t strangers anymore. We were a band.
By Friday, rehearsals were our new normal. Mila sang like the lyrics mattered. Riley brought rhythm and wild energy.
David started watching, then smiling. That night, we played for him. A lullaby I never finished—until now.
After, Mila asked, “Will you teach us?”
“We’ll see,” I whispered.
Julie returned Sunday, beaming and tan. The girls hugged us goodbye. Riley left me a drawing: us on a stage, surrounded by stars. “The Best Band Ever,” it said.
The house felt still again. On the porch, with wine and sunset, I turned to David.
“If we revisited that old argument… how many kids were you thinking?”
He held up four fingers.
“Four!?” I laughed.
We settled on two.
And just like that, my heart made room too.