Updated Nov 20, 2025 • ~9 min read
EMILIA
“You two need a break,” Cora announces, standing in my kitchen like she’s staging an intervention.
“We’re fine,” I protest.
“You haven’t been alone together—actually alone, overnight—since before Miles was born. That’s two years.”
“Two and a half,” I correct automatically.
“Even worse! Asher, back me up here.”
Asher looks up from where he’s building blocks with Miles. “I mean, she’s not wrong.”
“Traitor,” I mutter.
“I’m taking Miles for the weekend,” Cora continues. “You two are going to act like adults. Sleep in. Go on a date. Remember why you like each other.”
“We know why we like each other.”
“When’s the last time you had a conversation that wasn’t interrupted by someone needing a snack or a diaper change?”
I open my mouth to answer and realize I can’t.
“Exactly. Miles and I are going to have a sleepover at my place. There will be movies and probably too much ice cream, and you two are going to be childfree for thirty-six hours.”
“Miles won’t—”
“Miles will be fine. He loves his Auntie Cora. Don’t you, buddy?”
Miles looks up. “Auntie Cora has good TV.”
“See? He’s excited.”
I look at Asher, who’s trying not to smile.
“Don’t even think about taking her side,” I warn.
“I’m not taking sides. I’m just… not arguing with a free weekend.”
“Thirty-six hours,” I correct. “And Miles has never been away from me overnight.”
“Which is exactly why you need this,” Cora says gently. “Em, you’re an amazing mom. But you’re allowed to be a person too. A woman. A partner. Take the weekend.”
She’s right. I know she’s right.
But the idea of being without Miles for that long makes my chest tight.
“What if he needs me?”
“Then I’ll call. But he won’t. He’ll be too busy watching cartoons and eating junk food.”
Miles is already packing his backpack with toys. “I go Auntie’s house?”
“Yes, baby. Just for the weekend.”
“Bring Eph?”
“Of course.”
“Okay!” He’s thrilled.
Which somehow makes it worse. My child is excited to leave me.
Two hours later, after extensive instructions and three rounds of “did I forget anything,” Cora drives away with Miles waving from his car seat.
The house is suddenly, devastatingly quiet.
“This is weird,” I say.
“Very weird.” Asher comes up behind me, wraps his arms around my waist. “What do we do now?”
“I don’t know. I’ve forgotten how to be an adult without a toddler attached to me.”
“We could… watch a movie with actual violence? Swear without spelling things out? Eat dinner without cutting anyone else’s food?”
“That sounds almost decadent.”
“We’re wild people, Emilia. We can handle thirty-six hours alone.”
But an hour later, we’re both checking our phones.
“She hasn’t texted,” I say.
“That’s good, right? Means everything’s fine.”
“Or something’s wrong and she hasn’t had time to text.”
“You’re spiraling.”
“I know. I can’t help it.”
Asher takes my phone, sets it on the counter out of reach. “How about we get out of the house? Go somewhere Miles-free?”
“Like where?”
“That Italian place you love. The one with the wine list and quiet atmosphere.”
“The one we went to on our first anniversary?”
“The very same.”
I haven’t been to a nice restaurant in… I can’t even remember. Every meal is either at home or somewhere with a kids menu and crayons.
“I don’t know if I have anything to wear.”
“You look beautiful in everything.”
“That’s sweet, but not helpful.”
I end up in a dress I haven’t worn since before Miles. It still fits, miraculously, and makes me feel like a person instead of just Mom.
“Wow,” Asher says when I come downstairs.
“Too much?”
“Perfect.”
The restaurant is exactly how I remember—dim lighting, soft music, actual cloth napkins. We’re seated at a corner table, away from the other diners.
“This is nice,” I admit.
“No one has thrown food yet. I call that a win.”
We order wine—a whole bottle, because we can—and appetizers and entrees that aren’t shaped like dinosaurs.
“So,” Asher says, once we’re settled. “Hi.”
I laugh. “Hi.”
“How are you?”
“Is this weird? This feels weird.”
“Little bit. We’ve forgotten how to date.”
“We live together. We co-parent. We’ve had sex.”
“All true. And yet, sitting across from you at a fancy restaurant, I’m nervous.”
“You are?”
“Terrified. What if I’m boring without Miles to talk about?”
“Let’s find out.” I lean forward. “Tell me something about yourself that has nothing to do with our son.”
He thinks. “I’m thinking about going back to school. Getting an MBA, but focusing on sustainable investing.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Now that I’m not at Blackwood Industries, I have time to actually pursue what interests me. And I want to use my grandmother’s money for good. Help companies that are trying to make a difference.”
“That’s amazing, Asher.”
“Your turn. Tell me something non-Miles.”
“I enrolled in two classes. Starting in January. Interior design program at the community college.”
His face lights up. “Emilia, that’s incredible! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I just finalized it yesterday. I was nervous you’d think it was too much—school and Miles and everything.”
“It’s never too much to pursue your dreams. I’m so proud of you.”
We keep talking—really talking—about our hopes, our fears, things we want to do.
“I want to travel,” I admit. “When Miles is older. Show him the world.”
“Where first?”
“Mexico. To meet my extended family. Then maybe Europe. Show him art and history and different cultures.”
“I love that.” He reaches across the table, takes my hand. “We could make it a regular thing. Summer trips. Exposing him to everything.”
“That costs money.”
“I have money.”
“Your money.”
“Our money. Emilia, when are you going to accept that what’s mine is yours?”
It’s an old argument. I’m still not comfortable with his wealth, even though we’re together.
“I’m working on it,” I say.
“Work faster. I want to spoil you both.”
Dinner is long and leisurely. No rush to get home for bedtime. No toddler meltdowns to manage.
It’s perfect.
But also…
“I miss him,” I admit over dessert.
“Me too.”
“Is that pathetic? We’ve been gone four hours and I miss our kid.”
“Not pathetic. Sweet.” He checks his phone. “Want to call?”
“Cora will think we’re helicopter parents.”
“We are helicopter parents.”
“True.”
He calls anyway. On speaker, so we can both hear.
“He’s fine,” Cora answers immediately. “Eating ice cream, watching cartoons, living his best life.”
“Can we talk to him?”
“Miles, your parents are pathetic and miss you. Say hi.”
“HI MAMA! HI DADA! I eating ice cream!”
“I can hear that, baby. Are you being good for Auntie Cora?”
“So good! She let me stay up late!”
“It’s seven-thirty,” Cora clarifies.
“Okay, buddy, we just wanted to check in—”
“Bye! Cartoons on!” And he’s gone.
Cora comes back on. “See? Fine. Now go enjoy your night. Do adult things. I don’t want to hear from you until tomorrow.”
She hangs up.
“He didn’t even miss us,” I say, oddly hurt.
“He’s having fun. That’s good.”
“I know. I’m being ridiculous.”
“You’re being a mom. It’s allowed.”
We finish dessert and head home. The house is still quiet, still Miles-free.
“Movie?” Asher suggests.
“Something inappropriate for children.”
“I like how you think.”
We settle on the couch with a thriller that’s definitely not toddler-friendly. Halfway through, Asher pulls me closer.
“This is nice,” he murmurs.
“It really is.”
“But?”
“No buts. This is just… nice.”
We don’t finish the movie. Somewhere around the third act, we get distracted.
[FADE TO BLACK]
Later, in bed, wrapped up in each other, I feel more relaxed than I have in months.
“We should do this more often,” Asher says.
“Cora’s not going to take him every weekend.”
“We could hire a sitter.”
“I don’t know if I trust anyone else with him.”
“We’ll find someone. Vet them thoroughly. Do background checks.”
“You’re thinking about this too hard.”
“I want more nights like this. Just us, being us. Not just parents but actual partners.”
“We are partners.”
“I know. But it’s easy to forget when we’re in the thick of diapers and tantrums and bedtime routines.”
He’s right. We’ve been so focused on Miles, on building this family, that we’ve neglected the foundation—us.
“Okay,” I say. “Once a month. Date night. Just us.”
“Really?”
“Really. We can hire a sitter. Do thorough background checks. Install cameras. Whatever makes us comfortable.”
He laughs. “We’re going to be those parents.”
“We absolutely are.”
We fall asleep early—no toddler waking us at dawn—and sleep in until nine.
Nine in the morning. It’s a miracle.
“I forgot what sleep felt like,” I mumble into my pillow.
“It’s glorious.”
We make breakfast—actual breakfast, not just cutting up someone else’s pancakes—and eat it while it’s still hot.
“This is the life,” Asher says.
“Don’t get too used to it. We get him back tomorrow.”
“I know. Can’t wait.”
“Me too.”
And I mean it. As wonderful as this is—the quiet, the sleep, the uninterrupted conversations—I miss the chaos.
I miss his little voice calling for me. His sticky hands and endless energy. The way he makes everything more complicated and more beautiful all at once.
We spend the day doing nothing. Reading, watching movies, talking. At one point, we go for a walk without having to factor in nap time or snacks or bathroom breaks.
It’s strange and lovely and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Except maybe having Miles back.
When Cora drops him off Sunday afternoon, he runs to us like we’ve been gone for years.
“MAMA! DADA! I missed you!”
“Thought you didn’t miss us,” I tease, scooping him up.
“I missed you a little. But Auntie Cora has good snacks.”
“Thanks, buddy. That’s very reassuring.”
That night, after the normal bedtime chaos, Asher and I collapse on the couch.
“That was a good weekend,” I say.
“The best. We should do it again.”
“Definitely.”
“But?”
“But this is better. All three of us. The chaos and the noise and the sticky hands. This is where I want to be.”
“Me too.”
And he kisses me, and Miles calls for water, and we both go because that’s what parents do.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
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