"Hey!"

Ivy's voice ricocheted through the apartment like a well-aimed grenade, cutting through the gentle hum of a white noise machine and the lingering scent of spit-up and lavender detergent. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE'S MORE THAN ONE SHADE OF WHITE?!"

She emerged from the nursery in her uniform—one of your oversized hoodies, a messy mom-bun barely hanging on, and high-waisted leggings that had long since declared defeat. In one hand: a crumpled bridal magazine. In the other: her third iced coffee of the day, more condensation than caffeine.

The apartment—two bedrooms, one baby, and roughly eighty-seven unopened Amazon packages—looked like a war zone. Swaddle blankets tangled with garment bags, wedding magazines stacked next to burp cloths. A tiny pink sock sat in the middle of the floor like a silent accusation. Somewhere under the couch, the TV remote was holding a grudge.

You looked up from the laptop, sheepish.

To be fair, neither of you had signed up for this—the swatches, the seating charts, the stress dreams about the DJ playing "Baby Shark" during the first dance. Ivy especially hadn't planned for a wedding that looked less Pinterest board and more panic attack. But then again, nothing about you two had ever gone to plan.

Because the truth was: Ivy wasn't your first choice. And you sure as hell hadn't been hers.

Your beginning was messy. Like, actually messy.

It started with a breakup that wasn't yours. Ivy—pregnant, blindsided, and freshly ghosted by Kendrick—was supposed to be the cautionary tale. The heartbreak anecdote you whisper about at brunch. And you? Well, you were supposed to be the woman who Kendrick cheated on with Ivy. Not the one who stayed. Not the one who showed up.

But somehow, between late-night fry runs and emergency OB appointments, something shifted. You went from friends to... well, whatever existed in the blurry, sacred space between shared trauma and really good sex. And then your daughter arrived—tiny and red-faced and screaming like she already knew the world had no idea what to do with her two moms and zero rulebook.

And that should've been the end.

Instead, it was just the beginning.

Now, you had a baby girl with Ivy's honey eyes and your expressive eyebrows, a two-bedroom apartment that functioned more like a startup warehouse, and an engagement that had started with a ring, a burp cloth, and a baby clinging to your hip.

Ivy hadn't cried that hard since labor.

And as much as she adored you—her fiancée, her co-parent, the literal love of her life—she hated wedding planning.

She hated the Pinterest boards mocking her from her own phone. She hated the spreadsheets and the people who had opinions about napkin folds. She hated the way her body still ached in places no one warned her about. And mostly, she hated how guilty she felt for hating any of it.

Because wasn't this supposed to be the dream?

Instead, it was a minefield of fifty-seven indistinguishable shades of white, venues that charged extra for emotions, everyone asking why the baby wasn't in the wedding party, and your cousin suggesting a kombucha bar.

Now Ivy dropped onto the couch like gravity had given up on her too. She cradled the baby monitor in her palm like a grenade with the pin half-pulled and took a long sip of lukewarm coffee that did nothing for her nerves. The baby stirred on the screen, letting out a whimper. Ivy's eye twitched.

She turned to you with that look—the one that could part seas and silence TikTok trolls.

"This is your fault," she announced, solemn as a judge. "You just had to propose now. When I haven't slept in four days and everything I own smells like breast milk and resentment."