The wrapping paper tears beneath my fingers, silk ribbon pooling at my feet.
Inside the box sits a telescope.
Professional grade. Sleek black metal catching morning light like it holds galaxies inside its barrel. The kind of instrument I dreamed about owning when I was fifteen and believed the stars mattered more than boardrooms.
The tears hit before I can stop them. They spill hot and fast down my cheeks, and I press both hands against my mouth trying to contain sounds that keep escaping anyway.
"Adison." Jake's voice wraps around me soft and worried. He crosses the distance between us in two strides, his hands finding my shoulders. "What's wrong? If you don't like it—"
"I love it." The words choke out between sobs. "Jake, I love it."
His thumb brushes tears from my cheek with careful tenderness. "Then why are you crying like I broke your heart?"
"Because you gave it back to me." I lean into his touch, trying to breathe normally and failing. "The part of myself I buried. The girl who wanted to study the cosmos instead of quarterly reports."
"I don't want you to lose that." His voice drops lower, rough with emotion I feel radiating through his hands. "You're earthbound right now. Tethered to boardrooms and battles that have nothing to do with the universe you once dreamed of understanding. But that doesn't mean the stars stop existing."
Something cracks open in my chest—wider, deeper, more devastating than any wound Walter could inflict. Because this man sees me. Actually, see me. Not the CEO or the Manhattan heiress or the pregnant woman carrying his child.
Just me. The girl who used to stare at the sky and believe in something bigger than corporate warfare.
I kiss him through the crying, tasting salt and joy and something that feels exactly like home. His arms band around me, careful of my belly, holding me steady while I fall apart in the best possible way.
"Thank you." I whisper it against his mouth. "For understanding what I needed before I knew myself."
"Always." The promise lands certain and absolute.
Maria emerges from the kitchen with perfect timing, her voice carrying cheerful authority that cuts through the emotional weight settling over the living room. "Breakfast is ready. And it's elaborate because birthdays require elaborate."
She wasn't exaggerating.
The dining table groans beneath the spread she's created—pancakes stacked high, fresh berries glistening with sugar, bacon arranged in precise rows, eggs prepared three different ways, pastries that smell like butter and heaven.
"Maria." I stare at the feast, my hand instinctively finding my belly. "This is too much."
"Nonsense." She waves away my protest, already pouring coffee. "You're eating for two now. And celebrating. Both require abundance."
Jake pulls out my chair with exaggerated gallantry, his smile warm and teasing. "The lady should sit before she faints from overwhelming gratitude."
"I don't faint." I settle into the chair anyway, reaching immediately for the strawberries.
"You cried over a telescope ten minutes ago." He sits beside me, his hand finding my knee beneath the table. "I'm not ruling anything out today."
We eat in comfortable chaos—Maria fussing, Jake stealing bites from my plate despite having his own mountain of food, laughter punctuating conversation that feels deliciously normal.
When the plates are finally cleared and Maria disappears to clean up despite my protests, Jake leans back in his chair with an expression that looks carefully casual.
"I was thinking." He traces patterns on the tablecloth with one finger. "We should go out. Somewhere families gather. Somewhere children play."
The suggestion lands heavier than his tone suggests. I study his face, reading the subtext beneath the casual words. "You want to test something."
"I want to picture our future." He meets my eyes directly. "See what that looks like here."
Here. New York. The city I've spent months trying to navigate while pregnant and exhausted and fighting battles that never end.
The city he's trying to want for my sake.
"Central Park then." I stand, forcing brightness into my voice that doesn't quite reach my chest. "Best place to see families existing successfully in concrete jungles."
His smile doesn't reach his eyes either, but he nods and reaches for my hand.
* * *
Summer wraps around Central Park like a blanket too warm for comfort.
We walk past strollers and laughing toddlers, dogs chasing tennis balls across grass that's more brown than green from the heat. Couples tangle together on benches, stealing kisses like the world isn't watching.
Jake's quiet beside me. Too quiet. His eyes move constantly, cataloging details I can't decipher—a father pushing a swing, a mother negotiating with a screaming three-year-old, teenagers playing basketball with competitive intensity.
"Look at the advantages." I gesture toward the skyline visible through the trees. "World-class schools within walking distance. Museums on every corner. Culture accessible everywhere you turn. Our child would have access to everything."
"Everything." Jake repeats the word like he's testing its weight.
"The Met. The Natural History Museum. Broadway shows. Libraries that hold more books than most small towns." The pitch builds momentum as I list them. "Jake, our baby could grow up surrounded by opportunities most people only dream about."
He nods slowly. Doesn't argue. Doesn't agree either.
A toddler races past us, shrieking with joy while his mother chases behind. Jake watches them disappear around a corner, something unreadable settling into his expression.
"What are you really thinking?" The question escapes quieter than I intend. "Not what you think I want to hear. What you're actually thinking."
"It's your birthday." He deflects with gentle firmness. "Not the day for difficult conversations."
"Jake." I stop walking, turning to face him directly. "Please."
He's quiet for a long moment. A dog barks somewhere behind us. Children's laughter carries across the summer air. The city hums indifferent around us while we stand frozen in this moment that feels like standing at a crossroads without a map.
"I'm trying." The admission scrapes out honest and raw. "To see our future here. To want what you want. To picture raising our child in a place where concrete outnumbers trees and neighbors live stacked on top of each other."
"But?" The word barely makes it past my throat.
"But my eyes keep looking for open space that doesn't exist." His hand tightens on mine. "And I don't know if that's something I can fix through wanting it badly enough."
The truth settles between us—heavy, undeniable, terrifying in its honesty.
We keep walking because stopping feels like accepting defeat. The path curves ahead, leading us toward the park's exit and the spa I booked weeks ago when planning this birthday felt less complicated.
Jake's smile returns when the building comes into view—warm, determined, deliberately bright. "Ready for hours of being pampered?"
"Desperately ready." I lean into him, letting his solidity ground me.
But the question pulses silently between us with every step. Where will we build our family? Where will our child take their first steps, speak their first words, grow into whoever they're meant to become?
New York or Texas. Boardrooms or open sky. His world or mine.
And neither of us has an answer the other can accept.