259. TREE YEARS OF YOU

259. TREE YEARS OF YOU
That sweet little giggle reaches my ears, even amid the noise of the other children’s laughter. I’d probably hear it from miles away—or at the very least, I know I’d feel it.
After all, it’s been that way for the last three years.
My eyes keep following little Lord, who’s running as fast as he can, with the agility he got from his father. His brown hair bounces like clouds around his smiling face. Even with the nannies nearby, watching like hawks and poised like leopards, I can’t help but watch him. It’s as natural as breathing.
Henry dodges one of the waiters with a skill that’s honestly impressive for a child who just turned three, frustrating his cousin, who takes off after him with even more determination. Eddy’s only a year older—Rosalind’s son.
I never imagined the two of us could actually get along. Unlike Marianne, she was never hostile; she just kept a cold distance. Looking back now, I think she was just trying to avoid drama with her mother. But motherhood changed her, too. Her usually severe face started smiling more often, softening so much that she’s barely recognizable.
Who would’ve thought, huh?
Aunt Dorothy also laughs at the scene, watching from the other side, standing next to Rosalind. Our eyes meet for a moment, a silent acknowledgment that we’re thinking the same thing. She smiles and goes back to talking with her daughter, while I keep watching Henry slip easily under a table.
He’s so full of energy, and nothing in the world brings me more joy than that. Over these three years, I can count on one hand how many times he’s caught a cold. Honestly, I thought I might die the first time he had a fever. But not once did he seem down or weak.
Henry is really like a little sun.
I take a deep breath, feeling the humid Cornwall air, and I swear I can almost taste the salt of the sea on my tongue. I look up at the clear blue sky, with not a single cloud in sight. The summer warmth heats my face, but the cool coastal breeze keeps me grounded here.
“Three years… Time went by way too fast, didn’t it?” Christopher’s voice pulls me out of my nostalgic thoughts, and I blink a few times to hold back the tears.
That’s another thing motherhood did to me—everything about Henry makes me ridiculously emotional. His first word? “Dada”. But when he called me “Mama,” I bawled my eyes out. His first crawl, his first step… all those moments made me happier than I ever thought possible. Happier than I was back when I thought I’d already reached the peak of joy.
“He’s excited today,” I say, without taking my eyes off the little whirlwind of brown hair and eyes who’s now dodging two more kids, nearly making them crash into each other. Still, I lean into Christopher’s warmth, curling into his chest as he wraps his strong arms around me.
“When is he not?” He chuckles, low and affectionate. “The nannies are nearly out of breath… Should we enroll him in some extra activities? Maybe soccer?”
“He likes racing.” I smile as Henry bursts out laughing again. “We’ve got time to figure that out.”
Christopher nods thoughtfully and presses a lingering kiss to my temple. We fall into a comfortable silence, both of us watching as Henry finally begins to slow down. The boy stops, panting, and asks the nanny, who rushed over as soon as she saw the play had paused, for some orange juice.
“It’s a shame Sebastian couldn’t be here today,” I murmur at last, feeling Christopher pull me closer in response. “I miss him during moments like this.”
“He wanted to be here too,” Christopher sighs, his thumb tracing lazy circles on my arm. “But he’s in the middle of a treatment right now. It looks really promising.”
“I know,” I whisper. “I’m glad things are looking up.”
“He’ll be with us soon, love.” He kisses my hair again. “He said he’d call later to talk to Henry. And the birthday gift is supposed to arrive today.”
“He sent something from Switzerland?” I chuckle, not really surprised. “If it’s chocolate, I’m gonna kill him. Henry’s already hyped enough without a sugar rush.”
Christopher grins, mischief in his eyes, “We could eat it for him.”
“Who would’ve thought Lord Houghton would develop a sweet tooth?”
“Your fault, for making me eat them instead of Henry,” he says, half-playfully.
“So I made a monster?”
He leans in, lips brushing my ear, and whispers softly enough that only I can hear, “In more ways than you can imagine.”
I feel a shiver run up my spine before my brain even registers the words. That’s always how it is with Christopher—that voice of his, warm and husky, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. I close my eyes for a moment, letting the feeling linger a little longer, and I smile.
“What exactly does that mean, hmm?” I ask in a neutral tone, even though, from the way I curl deeper into him, he must know my curiosity is far from innocent.
Christopher chuckles softly, his breath warm against my skin, his hand sliding from my arm to my waist, gripping it gently.
But before he can say anything else, we hear Henry’s laughter again. Along with it, the sound of rushing footsteps—as if the race has started all over again. My body straightens instinctively, my eyes locking back on him.
Now, he’s running toward us, arms raised and eyes shining, not just from the running or the summer heat, but with that kind of pure happiness only deeply loved children have.
“Daddy!” he yells, breathless and grinning, his cheeks flushed and his little chest rising and falling fast. He stumbles slightly over his own feet, but the smile never wavers. “I won again!”
Christopher lifts him effortlessly, a low laugh escaping as he spins the boy once, making Henry squeal with joy.
“How many races does it take to tire out a champion?” he asks in a playful, light voice I never imagined I’d hear from Christopher—and yet, it’s become our new normal these past few years.
“Champions never get tired!” Henry says, laughing, then turns to me. “Mommy, did you see? Eddy almost tripped, but I was fast as lightning!”
“I saw, sweetheart,” I say, stepping in to gently brush some sweat-damp hair off his red face. “You were amazing!”
He seems to puff up with the praise, then narrows his eyes with spontaneous mischief that, I’m sure, came straight from his father. “Can I have my cake now?”
“But we haven’t even sung happy birthday yet,” I say with that patient maternal warning, though I’m smiling. “Don’t you want to blow out your candle and make a wish first?”
“Wish?” Henry pouts slightly, like he always does when he’s thinking hard. Then, he smiles, his eyes sparkling. “I don’t need to. My wish already came true, Mommy!”
“Oh yeah? And what was your wish, champ?” Christopher asks, his voice softer now, his gaze full of the tenderness that could melt even the toughest man. “To be the fastest and win all the races?”
Henry shakes his head, his grin widening even more. “No, Daddy! My wish was that my little sister and I could see each other again!”
The world stops.
My heart skips a beat.
Christopher holds Henry a little tighter, but his eyes grow wet. He swallows hard, not taking his eyes off the boy, who doesn’t even seem to notice the weight of what he just said.
“What do you mean, champ?” His voice shakes at the end, and he swallows again, harder this time, not blinking.
“My little sister, Daddy!” Henry insists, glancing between the two of us with a hint of confusion. “We promised we’d come together this time!”
The air gets stuck in my throat, and my eyes sting, but I quickly rub them, wiping away any tears before they fall in front of Henry.
Christopher’s still holding him tightly, but his face is pale, his mouth slightly open, too stunned to speak. He even seems to forget how to breathe.
“Can we name her Hope, Mommy?” He looks at me with those brown eyes so much like Christopher’s—and Kyra’s—wide and shining, now filled with a hope so real I can almost feel it.
“Why Hope, sweetheart?” My voice falters, and I also swallow the knot forming in my throat.
“Mmm…” Henry murmurs, thinking hard. “I don’t know. I just like it.”
Christopher looks at me, eyes a little wide, probably thinking exactly what I’m thinking.
Henry never mentioned anything like this before, but the innocence, the certainty in his words, makes me believe him. Makes me think this isn’t just a child’s imagination or simple wishful thinking. Christopher and I have been through death and back… It’s not hard to believe that, somewhere, someday, in some other place, our children found each other.
Kyra.
Our little girl…
“Can we call her Hope, Mommy?” he asks again, blinking slowly.
“Yes, sweetheart…” I smile, my chest warm, heart racing at the thought that maybe, just maybe, our family really can be whole. “Hope is a beautiful name.”
Christopher rubs his eyes, clenching his jaw so hard I can see the muscle jump beneath his beard. I gently stroke his back, a tender gesture that helps him relax.
Henry beams, satisfied, and throws both hands up in the air, impatient, “Now—cake!”
Christopher laughs softly, almost like he’s relieved, and gives a long, firm kiss to Henry’s hair. The boy scrunches his nose at the pressure and how his father is holding him almost desperately.
“You’re not planning to eat that cake without me, are you, you little rascal?” William’s voice rings out, playful, making Henry’s head snap in his direction—and his whole face lights up.
“Uncle Wiwie!” Henry lights up, wiggling in Christopher’s arms to be put down so he can run toward his uncle, who’s already crouching to meet him at eye level.
Just like Christopher, William lifts him with ease, though a bit more recklessly than a father would. Christopher makes a face somewhere between jealous and worried—especially when William starts tickling him, drawing out Henry’s loud, carefree giggles.
I bite back a smile, stroking Christopher’s back a little faster, both to soothe and tease him. He lets out a low, barely-there grumble, but doesn’t resist for long. The corners of his mouth twitch into an involuntary smile, that kind he tries to hide whenever William’s around, as if laughing with him would give something away.
William finally sets Henry down and points theatrically to the cake, already set up on the table with tiny blue candles and a golden sugar crown on top. Henry runs over like it’s the finish line, shouting for his cousins, grabbing Eddy’s hand, and insisting everyone come closer.
“Ready to sing, Big Softie?” William asks loudly, with his arm casually slung around Christopher’s shoulders, who now watches everything with that sharp, observant gaze—always alert, even in the middle of a party.
“Let’s do it,” he says grumpily, not taking his eyes off Henry.
Everyone gathers around the table. The kids squeeze in up front, clapping offbeat, while the nannies try to stop them from poking the frosting.
The candle is lit, and Henry watches the flame with bright eyes, grinning at us with a joy so radiant and contagious that we can’t help but smile as we sing, all at once:
Happy Birthday to you.
Happy Birthday to you.
Happy Birthday, dear Henry…
Happy Birthday to you!