Chapter 10 Second Baby Plans and "First Love Reenactment"

# Chapter 10: Second Baby Plans and "First Love Reenactment"

Five years after my accident, life had settled into a rhythm I never could have imagined during those confused early days of amnesia. Terry and I had been married for four and a half years, living in a larger apartment with more space for his ever-growing calligraphy collection and my architectural drafting tables. Walker Industries had expanded its sustainable investments division under Terry's leadership, while my architectural practice had gained recognition for eco-conscious urban housing designs.

And most significantly, we had become parents to a precocious three-year-old son, Alexander, who had his father's hazel eyes and my stubborn determination.

"Daddy, your A is crooked," Alex observed one Sunday morning, watching Terry practice his calligraphy at the kitchen table. Despite years of dedicated training, Terry still maintained a strict practice regimen, claiming that "perfection is an ongoing process, not a destination."

"Is it?" Terry asked seriously, examining his work. "You have a good eye, buddy."

Alex nodded solemnly. "Master Chen would say 'do again.'"

I laughed from my position at the coffee maker. "He's got you there."

Terry grimaced. "Master Chen's standards have unfortunately been passed to the next generation. I'm outnumbered."

The @RealTerryHandwriting account had evolved over the years, transitioning from daily updates on Terry's calligraphy progress to occasional glimpses of our family life—always through the lens of handwritten notes, lists, and letters. My last post had been a photo of Alex's birthday card, written in Terry's now-elegant script, with the caption: "The CEO's handwriting journey continues: now creating birthday cards that will embarrass our son in approximately ten years."

The public fascination with our story had gradually waned, though Terry's letter website still maintained a dedicated following. The paper mill he'd acquired had become a successful niche business within the Walker Industries portfolio, producing high-end stationery products with that same subtle coffee cup watermark.

And Terry continued rewriting his letters—slower now with the demands of parenthood and career, but steadily making progress through his massive collection.

"Have you seen my blue tie?" Terry asked, entering the kitchen freshly showered. "The one with the small pattern? I have that board presentation today."

"Check Alex's dress-up box," I suggested. "I saw him 'going to work like Daddy' yesterday."

Terry groaned. "That's the third tie this month. Our son has expensive taste."

"Can't imagine where he gets that from," I teased. "The man who bought an entire paper mill as a romantic gesture."

"One time," Terry protested, heading toward Alex's room. "I buy one paper mill and you never let me forget it."

Life wasn't perfect—we had disagreements, career stresses, and the usual challenges of balancing work and family. But we had built something solid, something real, from the most unusual of foundations.

Later that evening, after Alex was tucked into bed with three stories and a solemn promise that monsters couldn't penetrate the special protective shield around our apartment (Terry's creative solution to recent nighttime fears), I found myself feeling strangely nostalgic.

"Do you ever think about how differently things might have turned out?" I asked Terry as we settled on the sofa with glasses of wine. "If I hadn't approached you at that gala? If I hadn't had the accident?"

Terry considered the question thoughtfully. "Sometimes. But then I look at our life now—at Alex, at you—and I can't imagine any other outcome. Even with all the complications, we ended up exactly where we were supposed to be."

I rested my head on his shoulder. "I've been thinking about something."

"That sounds ominous," Terry joked.

"Not ominous. Just... significant." I took a deep breath. "I think I'm ready for another baby."

Terry set down his wine glass, turning to face me fully. "Really?"

After Alex's birth, we'd agreed to wait a few years before considering a second child. My architecture practice was thriving, and Terry had taken on increased responsibilities at Walker Industries following his father's semi-retirement.

"Really," I confirmed. "Alex is three now, I've completed the major projects on my schedule, and..." I shrugged, smiling. "I miss having a tiny human who thinks we're the center of the universe."

"Alex still thinks that," Terry pointed out. "He just expresses it by stealing my ties and critiquing my calligraphy."

"True," I laughed. "But what do you think? About expanding our family?"

Terry's smile was radiant. "I think it's a wonderful idea. Though I should warn you, I've already used our best boy name. You'll have to come up with something equally impressive if we have another son."

"I was thinking we might have a girl this time," I said. "Just to shake things up."

"A daughter," Terry mused, his expression softening. "I can already see her wrapping me around her little finger."

"Like father, like daughter," I teased.

Three months later, I sat in our bathroom, staring at the positive pregnancy test in my hand with a mixture of excitement and disbelief. We'd been trying, of course, but somehow the reality of a second child still felt overwhelming.

Terry knocked gently on the door. "Jacqueline? You've been in there for fifteen minutes. Everything okay?"

I opened the door, wordlessly holding up the test.

Terry's eyes widened, then his face split into a grin so wide it looked almost painful. "Really?"

"Really," I confirmed, laughing as he lifted me into a spinning hug.

"We're having another baby," he whispered against my hair. "Alex is going to be a big brother."

"Speaking of which," I said, pulling back slightly, "how should we tell him? He might not fully understand."

"Leave that to me," Terry said confidently. "I have the perfect plan."

Terry's "perfect plan" involved a custom-made picture book, hand-lettered in his calligraphy, telling the story of a little boy who becomes a big brother. He spent weeks working on it in secret, illustrating it with simple but charming drawings and binding it himself with techniques learned from a bookbinding class he'd taken as an extension of his calligraphy studies.

When the book was finished, we presented it to Alex during story time, watching his face as he gradually understood the message.

"There's a baby in Mommy's tummy?" he asked, pointing to the illustration of a pregnant woman who looked suspiciously like me.

"That's right," I confirmed. "You're going to be a big brother, just like in the story."

Alex considered this information with the serious contemplation only a three-year-old can muster. "Will the baby like my toys?"

"Eventually," Terry explained. "First the baby will be very small and just sleep and eat a lot."

"Like Grandpa after lunch?" Alex asked innocently.

Terry stifled a laugh. "Something like that."

As my pregnancy progressed, we settled into preparing for our new addition. The spare room was converted into a nursery, painted a gentle sage green that would work for any gender. We decided not to find out whether we were having a boy or girl, preferring the surprise just as we had with Alex.

At my twenty-week checkup, everything looked perfect. The baby was developing normally, my health was excellent, and we even got a clear ultrasound image that Alex declared looked "like a space alien, but a cute one."

Life continued its pleasant rhythm—work, family dinners, Alex's preschool adventures, and Terry's ongoing calligraphy projects. He had completed rewriting nearly 1,500 of his original letters, with about 2,000 still to go. At his current pace, he often joked, he'd finish just in time for our children to inherit the collection.

Then, during my seventh month, we received unexpected news. What we had thought was a routine follow-up ultrasound revealed something surprising.

"Well," the technician said, moving the wand across my rounded belly, "everything looks healthy, but I'm seeing something interesting here."

Terry, who had accompanied me to the appointment, tensed beside me. "Is something wrong?"

"Not at all," the technician reassured us. "But I'm definitely seeing two distinct heartbeats. You're having twins."

"Twins?" I repeated, certain I had misheard.

"Yes, twins. It looks like one baby was hiding behind the other in your previous scans. It happens sometimes, especially if the babies are positioned in certain ways."

Terry's face had gone completely pale. "Two babies. At once."

"That is generally what twins means," I said faintly, equally shocked.

The technician smiled sympathetically. "I'll give you two a moment to process this."

When she left the room, Terry and I stared at each other in stunned silence.

"Twins," I finally said. "We're having twins."

A slow smile spread across Terry's face. "Two babies. Double the diapers, double the midnight feedings..."

"Double the college tuition," I added dryly.

"Double the joy," Terry countered, taking my hand. "We can handle this. We've faced memory loss and public scrutiny of our love letters. Twins will be... well, not easy, but wonderful."

His confidence was contagious, and I found myself nodding. "Wonderful but terrifying."

"The best things usually are," Terry said, kissing my forehead.

Telling Alex that he was getting not one but two siblings required another custom book from Terry, this one explaining the concept of twins in terms a three-year-old could understand.

"Two babies?" Alex repeated, his eyes wide. "At the same time?"

"That's right," I confirmed. "You're going to be a big brother times two."

Alex thought about this for a moment. "Will they both like my toys?"

"Probably," Terry said. "But you'll be such a good big brother, I bet you'll share."

Alex nodded solemnly. "I will. But not my dinosaur. That's just for me."

"That seems fair," I agreed, trying not to laugh.

The final weeks of my pregnancy were challenging. Carrying twins meant more discomfort, more doctor's appointments, and more anxiety. Terry was a constant support, taking on extra childcare duties with Alex and making sure I had everything I needed.

"You should be working," I protested one afternoon, finding him setting up a comfortable reading nook in our bedroom when he should have been at an important meeting.

"Miranda can handle the Peterson account," Terry dismissed. "You and the babies are my priority right now."

His devotion was touching, if occasionally smothering. By the time I reached 36 weeks—considered full-term for twins—I was more than ready for the pregnancy to be over.

The delivery went smoothly, resulting in two healthy baby girls: Eleanor and Catherine, named after our respective mothers. They were identical, with the same button noses and rosebud mouths, distinguishable only by the small birthmark Eleanor had on her left shoulder.

Bringing the twins home was both joyous and chaotic. Alex was fascinated by his tiny sisters, constantly wanting to help with feedings and diaper changes, though his "help" often created more work. Terry's mother moved in temporarily to assist, proving surprisingly adept at managing twin babies despite her usual reserved demeanor.

"They're perfect," Terry whispered one night, standing beside the twins' cribs while they slept. "All of our children are perfect."

I leaned against him, exhausted but content. "They are. Though I reserve the right to reconsider that statement when they're teenagers."

Life with twins and a preschooler was an adjustment, to put it mildly. Sleep became a precious commodity. The carefully organized household systems we'd established were disrupted by the constant demands of two infants. Terry took paternity leave, working remotely when necessary but focusing primarily on our expanded family.

By the time the twins were six months old, we had established a new normal—chaotic and exhausting, but filled with more love than I had ever imagined possible.

One evening, while Terry was giving the twins their baths and I was helping Alex with a preschool art project, I found myself reflecting on how dramatically my life had changed since that car accident five years ago. From waking up believing I was still eighteen and hated Terry, to now being his wife and the mother of his three children—the journey had been extraordinary.

"Mommy, look!" Alex exclaimed, proudly holding up his completed project—a family portrait in crayon showing the five of us, with the twins drawn as identical round blobs with disproportionately large eyes.

"It's beautiful," I praised, genuinely impressed by his attention to detail. "Should we show Daddy when he's done with the twins' bath?"

Alex nodded enthusiastically, then suddenly grew serious. "Mommy, I made something else too."

He reached into his backpack and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "It's a letter. Like Daddy makes."

I opened it carefully to find a page covered in Alex's best attempt at writing—mostly wobbly lines and shapes that only vaguely resembled letters.

"Can you read it to me?" I asked gently.

Alex pointed to each scribble as he "read" aloud: "Dear Daddy, you are the worst person ever. From, Alex."

I blinked in surprise. "Sweetie, that's not a very nice thing to write. Why would you say Daddy is the worst?"

"It's pretend," Alex explained patiently, as if I was missing something obvious. "Like in the story Daddy tells about you and him when you were little. You said he was the worst, but then you loved him anyway."

My heart melted as I realized Alex was reenacting the story of Terry and me—the enemies-to-lovers tale that had become part of our family lore, sanitized for a three-year-old's understanding.

"I see," I said, trying not to laugh. "And what will you do after you give Daddy this letter?"

"I'll wait a long time," Alex declared. "Then I'll say I was just kidding and give him a hug."

"That sounds like a good plan," I agreed. "Should we give it to him now?"

Alex nodded solemnly, clutching his letter as we made our way to the bathroom where Terry was wrapping the twins in fluffy towels.

"Daddy, I have something for you," Alex announced importantly.

Terry looked up, hair damp from bath splashes, a baby under each arm. "What is it, buddy?"

Alex thrust the folded paper forward. "It's a letter. You have to read it."

Terry handed me one of the twins and accepted the letter with his free hand, opening it awkwardly while balancing Eleanor against his chest.

"Can you read it to me?" he asked, clearly unable to decipher Alex's scribbles.

"It says 'Dear Daddy, you are the worst person ever. From, Alex,'" I translated, trying to keep a straight face.

Terry's expression shifted from confusion to understanding as he made the same connection I had. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he played along.

"Oh my," he said seriously. "That's a very strong opinion, Alex. Why am I the worst?"

Alex giggled. "It's just pretend, Daddy! Like you and Mommy. Mommy said you were the worst but then she loved you anyway."

Terry met my eyes over the children's heads, his expression tender. "Your mom did say that. For a very long time."

"But it wasn't true," Alex declared confidently. "Just like my letter. I was just kidding!" He threw his arms around Terry's legs. "You're the best daddy ever!"

Terry handed me the second twin so he could properly embrace our son. "And you're the best son ever. Thank you for your letter, even if it was just pretend."

After the children were finally asleep—the twins in their cribs, Alex in his big-boy bed surrounded by stuffed dinosaurs—Terry and I collapsed onto our sofa, the rare moment of quiet almost disorienting after the day's chaos.

"So," Terry said, handing me a glass of wine, "apparently our origin story has made quite an impression on our son."

I laughed, taking a grateful sip. "I'm just glad he understood it was supposed to have a happy ending. Imagine if he'd stopped at 'you're the worst person ever' without the redemption arc."

"That would have been awkward at the next parent-teacher conference," Terry agreed. "'Yes, we're working on Alex's tendency to write hate mail. It's a family tradition.'"

We sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, enjoying the rare tranquility.

"It's strange to think about," I mused, "how differently things might have turned out if any single element of our story had changed. If you hadn't written those letters. If I hadn't approached you at the gala. If my accident had affected different memories."

"Or if you'd never thrown my Valentine in the trash in high school," Terry added. "That was a pivotal moment in teenage Terry's development."

"I've apologized for that at least a hundred times," I protested.

"And I'll accept it eventually," Terry teased. "Perhaps after I finish rewriting letter number 3,650."

I nudged him playfully. "At your current pace, that will be just in time for the twins' college graduation."

"Worth the wait," Terry declared, pulling me closer.

The next morning, I woke before everyone else—a rare occurrence in a household with three small children. Enjoying the quiet, I made coffee and settled at the kitchen table with my laptop to check emails.

As I scrolled through my inbox, I noticed a calendar alert: "Memory Anniversary – 5 Years." Five years to the day since my accident. Five years since I had awakened in that hospital room, memory reset to my eighteen-year-old self, facing a Terry Walker I only remembered hating.

On impulse, I opened a document and began typing a letter—not handwritten with Terry's elegant calligraphy, but carrying the same intention: preserving a moment, capturing a feeling, creating a record of love.

*Dear 18-year-old Jacqueline,*

*Today marks five years since you woke up in that hospital room, confused and afraid, facing a future you couldn't remember and a man you only recalled despising. You couldn't have imagined then that five years later, you'd be married to Terry Walker with three beautiful children, living a life that would have seemed impossible to your teenage self.*

*You were right about some things: Terry Walker WAS entitled and arrogant in high school. What you couldn't know was how he would grow, how he would challenge himself to become better, how he would love you with a constancy that defied logic or expectation.*

*The journey wasn't smooth—there were lies told with good but misguided intentions, trust broken and rebuilt, memories lost and found. But through it all, there was love. Not the perfect, sanitized version from fairy tales, but the messy, complicated, real version that survives amnesia and public scrutiny and sleepless nights with newborn twins.*

*If I could tell you one thing, standing in that hospital room five years ago, it would be this: Trust the journey. The boy you hated becomes the man you love. The memories you lost give way to new ones worth keeping. And sometimes, the most beautiful stories begin with "you're the worst person ever" and end with "I can't imagine my life without you."*

*With love from your future self,*

*Jacqueline*

I saved the document, planning to print it later and add it to the collection of letters Terry was still methodically rewriting. As if summoned by my thoughts, I heard his footsteps behind me, followed by his arms wrapping around my shoulders.

"Good morning," he murmured, kissing the top of my head. "You're up early."

"Anniversary reflections," I explained, tilting my head back to look at him. "Five years since the accident."

Terry's expression grew thoughtful. "Five years since you looked at me like I was your worst enemy."

"And now?"

His smile was tender. "Now you look at me like I'm the father of your children and the love of your life. It's a significant improvement."

Before I could respond, we heard the telltale sounds of stirring from the nursery monitor—one of the twins beginning to wake, which would inevitably rouse the other within minutes.

"I'll go," Terry offered. "You finish your coffee."

As he turned to leave, I caught his hand. "Terry?"

"Yes?"

"I love you," I said simply. "Every version of you—the boy I hated, the man who wrote me letters for ten years, the calligraphy obsessive, and the father who can somehow change two diapers simultaneously."

Terry's eyes crinkled with his smile. "And I love every version of you—the girl who threw my Valentine in the trash, the woman who gave me a second chance at that gala, the amnesiac who fell in love with me twice, and the mother of our children who still critiques my handwriting despite significant improvement."

The baby monitor erupted with more insistent cries, ending our moment of reflection.

"Duty calls," Terry said, squeezing my hand before heading toward the nursery.

I turned back to my laptop, adding a postscript to my letter:

*P.S. His handwriting does improve eventually. But don't tell him I said so—he's insufferable enough about his "calligraphy journey" as it is.*

As the sounds of our awakening household filled the apartment—Terry's voice singing a nonsense song to the twins, Alex's footsteps running down the hallway, the beginning of another chaotic, beautiful day—I couldn't help but smile. From enemies to lovers, from amnesia to clarity, from two people with a complicated past to a family of five with a bright future—our story had more twists than the most dramatic novel.

And I wouldn't change a single chapter.