“Mommy!” Kingston shouts, making me jump, and I slam the laptop closed and watch my beautiful boy with his dark hair and brown eyes—both traits from his father—hop-skip from the living room and into the kitchen. “Can we go outside now?”

“Yeah.” I slid off the stool I pulled out so I could look up a recipe for dinner tonight, not having a clue that doing so would change everything. “Let Mommy get on her shoes.”

“Okay,” he sings, following behind me to the front door.

“How about we walk down to the park?” I suggest, putting on his coat first. It takes me a few tries to get it zipped, because my hands are shaking so badly.

“Yes.” His tiny arms shoot into the air, and I can’t help the smile that curves my lips.

“All right, let’s go.” I open the door after I’ve got my shoes on, and he bounces out ahead of me, then waits for me to lock up before he reaches for my hand.

Holding onto him tightly, I move on autopilot down the sidewalk, past house after house, all of them similar to the one Bowie moved us into just weeks after we found out we were pregnant with Kingston. Our boy was a surprise gift from our honeymoon in Jamaica and a complete shock to me, because I had been on birth control at the time and was not planning on being a mom.

Or not at that moment in my life anyway.

At that time, I was working at a hair salon as a stylist with a goal of opening my own shop within the next couple of years, but getting pregnant changed that. For the first five months, I was so sick that I could hardly get out of bed, and for the last four, I was put on bed rest, because my doctors were concerned I would miscarry.

Bowie was great about everything and had no problem stepping up and taking care of us when I could no longer work. And after we had Kingston, we just decided I would stay home until he started preschool. And with Bowie’s job as a police officer, he was able to take an extra shift here or there, so we never struggled.

Now, I wonder if it was too much, if the responsibility and stress of him being the sole provider for our family changed the way he felt about me, about us.

With my throat tight, I shove that thought away. I might not work outside the house, but being a stay-at-home mom is a twenty-four-hour, seven-day-a-week gig. I do not get time off. Heck, I can’t even remember the last time I went to the bathroom on my own, let alone left the house by myself. And when Bowie does have a day off, I always make sure he never has to worry about Kingston or anything around the house.