I walked into the house quietly, the way you do when a baby lives there now… like the walls themselves might be sleeping.

The nanny was in the living room, sitting with intention, a book open in her lap. And there he was. My little cupcake. Sitting on one leg, with his pants above his belly button like a tiny gentleman, facing inward, calm, unbothered, listening as if the story being read was sacred text and not a board book with animals who talked too much.

The first thing I noticed was how peaceful he looked.

The second thing I noticed was his stomach. Easily my favorite about babies. Those little yet big stomachs.

Round. Proud. Impressive.

The kind of belly that belongs to an old man who’s lived well, eaten better, and has nowhere to be for the rest of the afternoon. Except this one lived on a sixteen month old tiny body with legs like dumplings and hands still learning how to grab the world.

He looked like he should’ve had a glass of wine in one hand and a very strong opinion about the economy.

The nanny noticed me then and gently lowered the book. Polite, professional, newly acquainted.

“Oh hi,” she said softly.

“Hey,” I replied. “I’m his aunt.”

My little cupcake glanced at me briefly. Just a quick look. Enough to register my presence. Then, without urgency or panic, he lifted his tiny hand, grabbed the edge of the book, and raised it right back up.

As if to say, Please don’t let this introduction delay the plot.

The nanny laughed and looked down at him. “Okay, okay,” she said, lifting the book again.

Peace restored.

He stared deeply into the pages, brows slightly furrowed, fully invested. So invested that he refused to look at me again. And honestly? I respected it. I’m a lover of books so why wouldn’t he be too?

I walked closer anyway. I couldn’t help myself.

“Hey, big belly,” I said, using both hands and lightly touching the roundness of it.

Immediate regret.

He turned his head slowly. Looked at me. Then at the nanny. Then back at me.

His face shifted. Not dramatically and not loudly, but with the quiet devastation of someone who had just been personally attacked.

His lips trembled. His eyes filled. And then he cried.

Not screaming. Not chaos.

Just… betrayal.

“Oh my baaaaaaby,” I said instantly. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

I scooped him up from the nanny’s lap without thinking, guilt flooding my chest. He buried his face into my shoulder like he needed a moment to process what I’d done. And honestly? Fair.

I slumped onto the couch with him, cradling his little body against mine.

“I love you so much,” I whispered. “You’re my favorite person in the whole world. I promise.”

After a moment, he lifted his head.

Our faces hovered inches apart.

He studied me closely, like he was trying to decide whether I was still worthy of him. His lips moved like he wanted to say something, like the words were there, just waiting for his mouth to catch up.

I kept talking anyway.

I told him how much I loved him. How I couldn’t wait until he could talk. How our conversations were going to be incredible. I told him things I didn’t even realize I was holding inside.

He listened. Really listened.

Eventually, he rubbed his eyes. Which was that universal sign that a baby is tired and done with the world. So I stood up carefully, carried him down the hall, and into the nursery.

As I laid him down for his afternoon nap, he sighed softly and curled into himself.

And standing there, watching his chest rise and fall, I realized something.

Love doesn’t always announce itself.

Sometimes it looks like a round belly and a lifted book.

Sometimes it sounds like a soft cry and a forgiven aunt.

Sometimes it feels like a small body trusting you enough to fall asleep in your arms.

My little cupcake.

Mid-chapter.

Already teaching me everything.

Shout out to R.K.K.P! My little cupcake. My sweet baby nephew.