The sun hung low outside the glass-paneled office, casting golden streaks across Eliza's polished desk. She was reviewing quarterly projections for the new education initiative when her phone lit up—Will's name glowing with a little video icon attached. She almost ignored it. Almost.
But something tugged.
She picked up, and Will's face filled the screen, beaming. "You're going to want to take this," he said, breathless, holding the phone outward.
Eliza saw Lyra, sitting on the living room rug with her favorite plush octopus. And then—clear as day—"Dada."
The word was a small chirp, but it echoed like a firework in Eliza's chest.
Her fingers froze around the stylus. "Did she just…?"
Will laughed, unable to contain it. "She said it twice before I called you. I was hoping you'd catch it live."
Eliza tried to smile. She did. But her throat burned.
"I missed it," she said softly.
Will's eyes softened, the joy in his face dimming slightly as he read hers. "Babe, you didn't miss anything. There'll be so many firsts, you'll get one that's all yours, too. And knowing her—she's probably saving the best for you."
Eliza nodded, blinking faster than she wanted to. She stayed on the call a few more minutes, watching Lyra chew on a block and babble nonsense at the dog. It should have been enough.
But when the call ended, she sat back in her chair and let the tears fall silently.
It wasn't resentment. Not even envy. It was just... ache. That soft ache only mothers knew—the fear of being needed a little less while they were away doing something that was supposed to matter.
That evening, when she came home, Will greeted her with a long kiss and a slow hug that lingered. He didn't mention the call again.
And Lyra—bright-eyed and giggly—crawled toward her with arms outstretched. Eliza scooped her up and buried her face in the crook of that tiny neck. "I love you," she whispered. "Even if you don't say my name yet."
But Lyra just hummed and patted her cheek like she always did.