Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
“Were you going to name a boy MacGyver?” the nurse wants to know as she helps Annabelle with her IV.
“No,” Annabelle says at the same time I say, “Yes.”
They both roll their eyes.
Our baby girl squeaks again—tiny, grumpy, perfect.
“See?” I beam. “That’s my girl. She approves.”
Epilogue
Bronte
One year later . . .
I don’t remember asking for any of this.
Not the balloons. Not the forty-seven people in my personal space. Not the cake that looks like a woodland fairy exploded. And certainly not the itchy tutu they’ve stuffed me into like a chubby, puffed-up marshmallow who likes being smothered in pastel tulle.
But here we are.
I’m one now, which means my parents have completely lost their damn minds.
My dad—who I used to think was the calmer of the two—is currently standing on a chair yelling “Everyone Look Over Here! She’s about to Touch the Cake!” like I’m a rare, majestic bird about to land on a perch.
His phone is in one hand, and his face is sweaty, because instead of worrying about throwing that brown ball around, he’s always worried about me.
His spawn, he calls me.
My mom is sniffling. “I just can’t believe she’s already a whole year old!”
I can’t even walk! I’ve done nothing but sit here, looking cute.
The backyard is filled with people I’m told are friends and family and Daddy’s teammates, but to me, they’re the reason I haven’t been able to nap properly since 9:00 a.m.
One of them tried to give me a bite of cheese earlier, and I’m not naming names, but Uncle Dex got yelled at by Mom because it was too small a piece and she didn’t want me choking.
Now there’s a banner above me that reads: Happy Birthday, Bronte!
Yep. That’s me.
Bronte.
After days and days of searching for the perfect name and Dad losing the battle over naming me MacGyver, they settled on Bronte McBride.
Dad still whispers MacGyver to me, though, under his breath sometimes. Like when I throw food. Or growl at him.
“Such a little MacGyver,” he says with pride—like it’s a compliment, and I don’t even know what the heck he’s talking about.
Anyway, they call me Bronte. Or sometimes B. Or B-Money, depending on how many coffees Dad’s had.
At this exact moment, I’m in a high chair that’s been decorated like a throne. A literal throne. There are vines. There are gold foil letters. There’s a glittery crown on my head and a bow in my hair. Glamma McBride says I’m the cutest thing she’s ever seen!
The cake is bigger than my torso. It’s covered in pink rosettes and edible glitter, and everyone seems emotionally invested in me smashing it with my tiny fists of rage.
Like, deeply invested. Like it’s the Super Bowl and my ability to flail these little fists into frosting is somehow symbolic of joy, freedom, and good parenting.
My mom leans down next to me. Her mascara is clinging to her lashes like it’s in survival mode. “Okay, baby girl. Are you ready? This is your moment.”
My moment to do what? I’m hungry!
I poke at the cake, tentatively.
Hmm.
If I poke it like this, I can—
Dad yells again from his perch. “She’s Doing It!”
Startled, I pause. Someone turns off the Bluetooth speaker. Silence falls like we’re at a golf tournament. All eyes on me.
I blink.
Reach for the cake again . . .
Grab a handful of frosting.
And, because I’m a little chaotic by nature, I fling it directly at Dad.
It hits his shoulder.
The room gasps.
And then—
Applause.
Wild, thunderous applause like I just solved world peace.
“Good job!” Mom coos. “Good Job, Bronte!”
Click, click goes the photographer’s camera.
Everyone has their phone pointed at me as I fist the cake and stuff it into my face, shocked that they’re letting me. Usually, Mom makes me try to use a spoon.
“She’s perfect,” Mom says.
“That’s my girl,” Dad says proudly, frosting dripping down what Mom calls his “meaty bicep.”
Someone starts playing music again—“Happy” by Pharrell, because of course—and the backyard erupts into laughter, more camera clicks.
Why is no one stopping me?
Why am I not in trouble?
Right now, I’m a lawless beast, elbows deep in frosting, cheeks sticky, crown askew.
Grandma appears next to me with a fresh baby wipe. “Let me just—” she mutters, reaching for my face . . .
I strike, ninja-like. Frosting flies.
Direct hit! Her glasses.
She gasps.
“She’s just growing up so fast,” Grandma sniffs, even though I am literally still a baby.
Everyone is being so weird.
Dad starts a speech. He holds up his drink (not milk) and clears his throat like he’s accepting an award at the ESPYs. “Friends and family, first of all, thanks so much for being here. I know a lot of you traveled to get here,” he begins, bloppity bloop.
“These past two years have been the best years of our lives,” he says, voice thick with emotion. “We got married. Became parents to the funniest, sassiest, sweetest little girl—”