"Daddy!" Rory yells loudly, bouncing on the balls of her feet at the front door. "Nolee! Daddy is home!"
Skipping up the front porch steps, I crouch down while running to be able to bundle Rory into my arms.
"Come here, my little Peanut!" I grin, puckering a bunch of kisses to her cute little face.
"Daddy?" She calls my name, twirling her finger around one of the longer strands that have fallen from the bun at the back of my head. "Momma said it's daddy day today?"
"It's Father's Day today, yeah!" I agree, sitting her on my hip as I walk closer to the front door with a smile.
Not even seconds later, the soft pitter-pattering of feet comes skidding down the hallway as Nola's pretty smiling face rounds the corner of the kitchen door.
"You're back!" She exclaims, rushing over to me with an excited squeal.
Bending down to place Rory back on the floor, I smile even wider at my oldest two girls.
Working all day on Father's Day has been torture, to say the least, but seeing this reaction has definitely made it all worth it.
Nola clings to my leg, rounding her arms around my thigh as she places her feet on top of my shoes and giggles when I try to walk with her attached to me.
"H?" My wife calls softly from the kitchen where soft music drifts from our speaker system. "Is that you baby?"
Rory skips ahead of us but I waddle with Nola still clinging to me with a wide grin that morphs into a smirk when I see the shirt that Sunny is wearing. The shirt that she practically ripped off me last night in the heat of the moment is now sitting pretty on her body and tucked loosely into a pair of jean shorts with a dark brown leather belt keeping them up.
"Mumma looks extra pretty today," I tell Nola, running my hand over her braids that I did this morning in a rush before leaving the house to meet my project manager.
It is true.
I am so desperately in love with my wife so there is never a time where I don't find her utterly spellbinding. But, there are moments, like right now, where I look at her and I can't believe she is real.
There is nothing remotely astonishing about what she is doing. With our eleven-month-old daughter sitting on her hip in only a nappy and nothing else, she passes Mosi's sippy cup down to him with a small smile and a ruffle of his curly blonde hair.
Stunningly beautiful, I stand in awe of how she can look so perfect in my old, crumpled T-shirt, with no makeup and messily curled hair that's been scraped up throughout the day so it is out of her face.
