Camilo moved in on a Tuesday.
No ceremony.
No boxes stacked to the ceiling.
No dramatic moment where we stood in the doorway and declared a new beginning.
He just… arrived.
A duffel bag.
A few shirts on hangers.
His toothbrush in the pocket of his jacket.
And the kind of tired relief in his eyes that told me he’d been waiting for this longer than he admitted.
He set his things down, looked around the living room, and said, “Feels like home already.”
It came up naturally, the way important things often do.
Holly was toddling around the living room, dragging her stuffed rabbit by one ear. Aspen was in Camilo’s arms, chewing on his fist with the intensity of a baby who experiences life at maximum volume.
I was folding laundry when Camilo said, “We should talk about their last names.”
I paused. “Yeah. We should.”
“Holly is Lobo,” he said. “Aspen is Bolívar. I don’t want them to feel… separate.”
“I don’t either,” I said.
He sat beside me, Aspen drooling happily on his shoulder. “What do you think about hyphenating? Lobo‑Bolívar.”
I said it out loud, testing the weight of it.
“Holly Lobo‑Bolívar.”
“Aspen Lobo‑Bolívar.”
“I like it,” I said. “It fits them.”
Camilo nodded, relief softening his shoulders. “Good. I want them to share a name. I want them to know they’re part of the same story.”
I smiled. “They are.”
Holly looked up at us then, as if she understood, and toddled over to lean against Camilo’s leg. Aspen squealed, delighted by the attention.
Even with Camilo here, Holly’s nightmares haven’t let up.
They come almost every night now — sudden, sharp, and loud enough to jolt both of us awake. One moment the house is quiet, the next she’s screaming like something is crawling across her skin.
“Spiders,” she sobs when I reach her. “Mama, spiders.”
I lift her into my lap, her little body trembling, hair damp with sweat. She clings to me with both hands, fingers digging into my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she loosens her grip.
Camilo tries to help.
He sits beside us, rubbing her back, whispering soft words in Spanish that usually calm her during the day. But at night, when the spiders come, she only wants me.
“Mama,” she cries, burying her face in my neck. “No spiders.”
I rock her gently, even though my arms ache and my eyes burn from exhaustion. Aspen stirs in the next room, sensing the noise, and I pray he doesn’t wake up too.
She’s growing — taller, steadier on her feet, more toddler than baby — but in these moments she feels impossibly small. Like the world is too big for her, too dark, too full of things she can’t understand.
I hold her until her breathing slows.
Until her fists unclench.
Until her body softens against mine.
And then I carry her back to bed, even if my back protests, even if my legs shake from fatigue. I tuck her in, smooth her hair, and stay until her eyes flutter closed again.
Camilo’s phone buzzed while we were getting dressed after breakfast. Holly was stacking blocks in her room, and Aspen was gnawing on a teether with the intensity of a baby who believes he is personally responsible for defeating it.
Camilo glanced at the screen and his expression softened instantly.
“Lola,” he said.
“¿Cómo estás, mi niña?”
A pause.
A soft laugh.
“That’s good. I’m glad.”
After a few minutes, his voice grew brighter, lighter.
“Classes are going well?”
Another pause.
“Of course you can do it. You’re brilliant.”
He leaned against the counter, rubbing the back of his neck — a habit he has when he’s relieved.
“No, everything here is fine,” he said. “The babies are… loud.”
He chuckled. “But good. Healthy.”
I could hear the smile in his voice.
He listened for a long time, nodding even though she couldn’t see him. Then, softer:
“I miss you too.”
He’d spent so long splitting himself between two worlds. Now he was here, fully here, but part of his heart was still in Selvadorada with the girl he raised.
Holly has officially entered her toddler‑trouble era.
Which is how Camilo found her in the backyard, pouring paint onto the grass like she was blessing the earth with color.
Bright yellow.
Half the bottle.
A masterpiece, in her mind.
“Holly,” he said, voice gentle but firm. “No, mi amor. We don’t do that.”
She froze, paintbrush in hand, eyes wide.
And then — of course — her face crumpled.
Tears.
Instant.
Loud.
The kind that make her whole body shake.
Camilo sighed, rubbing his forehead. “I’m not mad. But you can’t pour paint outside. It ruins the grass.”
This did not soothe her.
Nothing ever does in the first thirty seconds.
I stepped outside just as she reached peak heartbreak, little hands covering her face, shoulders trembling. The paint bottle lay on its side, leaking into the dirt like a crime scene.
“I’ve got her,” I told Camilo.
He nodded, relieved, and went to fetch towels.
I crouched down — slowly, because my knees are not what they used to be — and opened my arms. Holly launched herself into them, sobbing into my shoulder like the world had betrayed her personally.
“It’s okay,” I murmured, rubbing her back. “You’re okay. It was just paint.”
She hiccuped, clinging tighter.
Once she calmed, I set her on the porch steps with a cup of water and a snack. Then I cleaned up the mess — or tried to. Blue paint does not come out of grass easily. The patch will probably be stained until next season.
When I came back, Holly lifted her arms again, wanting another hug. I gave it to her, because of course I did. She melts down fast, but she recovers just as quickly when she feels safe.
After the paint incident, the rest of the evening moved in that slow, tired rhythm that comes when everyone is just trying to make it to bedtime without another meltdown.
Dinner was simple — leftovers warmed on the stove while Holly narrated her day in half‑words and enthusiastic gestures. Aspen fussed through most of it, big emotions in a tiny body, but eventually settled enough to gum on a spoon and watch us with wide, curious eyes.
When the plates were cleared, Camilo scooped Holly into his lap in the living room.
“Story time, mi amor,” he said, pulling one of her picture books from the basket.
She curled against him instantly, thumb in her mouth, eyes already heavy. He read slowly, gently, his voice warm and steady. Holly watched the pages like they were magic.
When the story ended, she lifted her arms — her silent way of saying again.
Camilo smiled. “One more in bed.”
Camilo scooped her up gently and carried her down the hall to her room, to her bed.
She crawled under the blankets, clutching her stuffed rabbit, eyes already heavy. Camilo opened the book she chose — the one with the animals she points to every night — and began reading in that soft, warm voice she loves.
She watched him with absolute devotion, her whole world narrowed to the sound of his voice and the pictures on the page.
When he finished, she whispered, “’Nother one.”
He smiled. “Tomorrow. Sleep now.”
She pouted, but only for a second. Then she curled onto her side, thumb back in her mouth, and let him tuck the blanket around her.
He kissed her forehead.
“Buenas noches, Holly.”
Her eyes fluttered closed.
And just like that, she was out.
While Camilo handled Holly, I was in the nursery with Aspen — who was having a full‑body meltdown over absolutely nothing and everything at once.
Eventually, after what felt like an hour but was probably fifteen minutes, he sagged against me, exhausted from his own emotions. His breathing slowed. His fists relaxed. His forehead rested against my collarbone.
I eased him into his crib, holding my breath like a superstition.
He stayed asleep.
When both kids were finally down, Camilo and I met in the hallway — the kind of slow, quiet meeting that only happens in a house with sleeping babies.
He reached for my hand.
I took it.
We walked together to our bedroom — not my room with his things in it, not a space he visited, but the room we share now. The room that feels like a beginning.
He closed the door softly behind us.
We climbed into bed — our bed — and for the first time all day, the house felt still.
It started small.
A wave of nausea in the morning that didn’t feel like exhaustion.
A heaviness low in my belly that wasn’t from carrying Aspen around.
A bone‑deep tiredness that even sleep — when I managed to get any — didn’t fix.
I kept brushing it off. Two babies. A full house. A partner finally moved in. Of course I was tired.
But then I caught myself standing at the kitchen counter, hand pressed to my stomach in that unconscious, instinctive way I hadn’t done since before Aspen was born.
And the thought slipped in, quiet but unmistakable.
No… not again.
Except… maybe yes.
Camilo was in the living room, bouncing Aspen gently while Holly stacked blocks and narrated her own story in toddler babble. The house was loud, messy, alive — and suddenly too small again.
I closed my eyes.
And I knew.
I was pregnant.
Again.
I told him after both kids were asleep.
We were sitting on the edge of our bed, the house finally still in that rare, fragile way it only is after two babies have surrendered to sleep. My hands were folded in my lap. Camilo was rubbing the back of his neck, unwinding from the day.
“I think I’m pregnant,” I said.
He froze, then softened. “Clara… are you sure?”
I nodded once. “I know the signs. And I feel it. The same way I felt it with Holly. And Aspen.”
He didn’t rush to reassure me. He didn’t panic. He just asked, gently, “How do you feel about it?”
“I’m tired,” I said. “I’m so tired, Camilo.”
He squeezed my hand.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.” My voice cracked, just a little. “I’m stretched thin. Holly’s nightmares. Aspen’s big emotions. I barely sleep. I barely think. And now—”
He finished it for me, quiet and steady. “Another baby.”
I looked at him then — really looked at him.
“You’re here now,” I said. “But you weren’t before. And I understood why. I did. But it was still hard.”
He nodded, guilt flickering across his face.
“I want this baby,” I admitted. “I do. But I’m overwhelmed. And I’m scared of being overwhelmed for another year.”
I closed my eyes.
“I just need you here,” I whispered.
“I am,” he said. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
And for the first time since the nausea started, I let myself breathe.
Peanut made herself known long before the kids ever saw her.
She strutted through the house like she’d been here for years — tail high, eyes half‑lidded, giving everything and everyone a slow, assessing look. Not scared. Not shy. Just… unimpressed.
Aloof, the shelter paperwork said.
Which was a polite way of saying she’d acknowledge us when she felt like it.
She brushed past my leg once, just enough to claim me, then immediately hopped onto the back of the couch and pretended I didn’t exist.
Spoiled, the paperwork also said.
Which I figured out the moment she turned her nose up at the first bowl of food I offered her.
And Prowler.
Which became obvious when she disappeared under the couch and came back out with a dust bunny she looked far too proud of.
He was still processing the pregnancy news — quietly, gently, in that way he does — when Peanut sauntered into the living room like she owned the place.
He blinked at her.
Then at me.
Then back at her.
“Clara,” he said slowly, “why is there a cat in the house.”
I shrugged. “Her name is Peanut.”
“That does not answer anything.”
“She needed a home,” I said. “And we have one.”
He stared at me for a long moment, then sighed the sigh of a man who has accepted that life will continue happening to him whether he’s ready or not.
“You’re pregnant,” he said.
“I know.”
“And your solution was… a cat.”
I nodded. “Yes.”
Peanut jumped onto the couch beside him, sat down, and immediately began grooming herself like she was bored of the conversation.
Camilo rubbed his face with both hands.
Then he laughed — tired, bewildered, but warm.
“The kids are going to lose their minds in the morning.”
Peanut flicked her tail, as if to say they should be honored.
Peanut settled in faster than any of us expected — mostly because she does whatever she wants and refuses to apologize for it.
She sits on the counters.
She sits on the table.
She sits in the fruit bowl like she’s posing for a still life.
And she steals food straight off plates with the confidence of someone who has never once faced consequences.
We try to correct her.
She ignores us.
Spoiled, the shelter said.
They were not exaggerating.
But she likes the kids.
Actually likes them.
She rubs against Holly’s legs when she toddles by, and she curls up beside Aspen’s high chair like she’s waiting for him to drop something — which he always does.
Aspen has started trying solid foods, which is a generous way of saying he smears everything across his face, his tray, his hair, and occasionally the wall.
He’s the opposite of Holly at this age.
She hated everything except ice cream.
Aspen?
He’ll try anything once and then try to eat the spoon.
Tonight he discovered mashed peas.
He loved them.
He also painted his entire torso with them.
Peanut sat under the high chair, tail flicking, waiting for gravity to do its job.
It did.
After dinner, while I got ready for bed, Camilo called Lola. I could hear the warmth in his voice even through the door.
He told her about the baby.
And the cat.
And the peas.
I heard him laugh — that soft, relieved laugh he only uses with her.
“Sí, mi niña… I know. Another one.”
A pause.
“No, I didn’t know about the cat either.”
Another pause.
“Yes, she’s spoiled.”
He asked about her classes, and I could hear the pride in his voice when she told him things were going well. He misses her. He always will. But he’s here now, and she knows it.
While Aspen was finally winding down, Holly was in the backyard playing with her dollhouse. At first it was normal — dressing them, brushing their hair, making them talk to each other in her little half‑words.
Then she put them in the dollhouse swimming pool.
And then she took away the ladders.
I froze.
“Oh no,” I whispered. “She’s one of us.”
Future Sims player.
It’s in her blood.
I stepped closer, smiling a little despite myself. “Holly, sweetheart… what are you doing?”
She whipped around like I’d just insulted her entire creative vision. Her face scrunched, her eyebrows slammed together, and she clutched the dolls to her chest like I was about to snatch them away.
“No!” she snapped, stomping her foot. “Swim!”
I held up my hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. They can swim.”
She glared at me for another second, just to make sure I understood the gravity of my mistake, then turned back to her dollhouse and resumed her… ethically questionable gameplay.
I made a mental note to keep an eye on her when she eventually discovers computers.
We woke up to a blowout.
Not a small one.
Not a “oh no, his pajamas are dirty” one.
A full‑scale disaster — crib sheets, pajamas, the wall, somehow the floor, and a very, very pissed‑off Aspen.
He was red‑faced, furious, and screaming like the universe had personally wronged him.
I took one look and handed the situation to Camilo.
“Nope,” I said, backing away. “This one’s yours.”
He didn’t argue.
He just sighed, rolled up his sleeves, and got to work.
It took both of us to contain the damage — Camilo on baby duty, me on laundry triage — but eventually Aspen was clean, dressed, fed, and only mildly offended by the events of the morning.
Once he’d recovered from the trauma of being cleaned, Aspen decided he needed fresh air. He toddled straight to the back door, slapped his hands against it, and made his intentions very clear.
So we let him out into the yard.
He made a beeline for the dollhouse — the same one Holly had used for her digital crimes the night before — and plopped down beside it with all the seriousness of an explorer charting new territory.
Holly joined him a minute later, settling beside him like they’d planned it. They didn’t talk. They didn’t need to. They just played side by side, each in their own little world, occasionally bumping elbows and not minding at all.
For about five minutes.
Holly spotted Peanut sunning herself on the patio and immediately abandoned the dollhouse.
“Pea-nut!” she squealed, toddling over with her arms out.
Peanut, aloof as ever, pretended not to care — but she didn’t move away. She let Holly pet her, even leaned into it a little, which is the highest honor Peanut has bestowed on anyone so far.
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