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Pink-and-blue ribbons.
Cupcakes.
Harper insisted on handling the gender part because she was the only one who knew.
“I want to be involved,” she said.
“I’m the aunt.”
“Fine,” I laughed. “Just don’t mess it up.”
She smiled. “I would never.”
Two days before the party, I was on the couch, exhausted in that first-pregnancy way where you can fall asleep mid-sentence.
Blake was in the shower, humming like he didn’t have a conscience.
A phone buzzed on the coffee table.
It wasn’t.
A message popped up from a contact saved as “❤️.”
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