Jokes aside, the more actual the twins felt, the more I nested, which I had thought was an old wives’ tale until I spent an entire afternoon arranging the onesie drawer in the room that was meant to be their nursery. Getting the house ready for the babies, everything folded and tucked in just so, was deeply soothing. All the questions that needed to be answered were nice ones, with no wrong answers—what color would be most restful in their bedroom? Did we want duckies or puppies for the wallpaper trim?—and because we’d decided not to find out the twins’ gender (so as not to blurt it out to the press, but also because it seemed like one of the last, great surprises a person might experience), I spent a lot of time in a pleasant haze of lemon yellow and pistachio green.

One afternoon, Nick and I were up in the Den of Secrets, him knitting and me rooting through Georgina’s things to see what I could add to the babies’ growing bookshelves besides her Little Women volumes and the tomes I’d brought back from Muscatine.

“I was sure I saw a Beatrix Potter anthology in here somewhere.” I stood back and squinted at the room’s uppermost shelves. “I bet I can see up there if I stand on her chair.”

“Absolutely not,” Nick said. “I cannot take you to the ER and explain that you fell because I was watching my pregnant wife climb up a bookcase in our sex den. I do not even need a baby book to know that.”

He put down the nubbly hat-adjacent object he was knitting and pulled over Georgina’s desk chair, carefully standing on it and running his finger across some book spines way at the top of her shelves.

“Oooh, The Adventures of Tintin,” Nick said. “Baby Pret A Manger and Baby Masala Zone will need these for sure.” He tossed them down to the ground, where they landed with a dusty thud. “Aha, here’s your Potter, poppet.”

“Thank you,” I said, leaning into the shelves on the left side of the room. “Look, Georgina has a hardback Betsy-Tacy anthology! She really didn’t throw anything away.”

“I wonder why she kept all her childhood books up here,” Nick said, hopping down and scooting the chair back to its home.

“Who knows why Georgina kept anything anywhere. Oh, The Bobbsey Twins on a Houseboat!” I shrieked, ripping that off the shelf. “This is great. When we were kids, all my parents’ friends gave us Bobbsey Twins books because, well, I guess that’s the joke you make when someone has twins. They’re pretty bad and I love them.” I hugged the book to me. “Thank you, Georgina. Hoarding wins again.”