Updated Nov 20, 2025 • ~7 min read
The honeymoon was supposed to be two weeks in France.
Bash had planned it meticulously—Paris for the food, Provence for the countryside, the Loire Valley for wine tasting. He wanted to show Ivy where his mother grew up. Share his heritage. Eat incredible food and make memories.
They made it four days before they both admitted they were homesick.
“Is it weird that I miss Willowbrook?” Ivy asked over breakfast at a café in Paris.
“No,” Bash said, relieved. “I miss it too. I miss our kitchen. Our bed. The bakery. The restaurant.”
“We’re terrible at vacationing.”
“We really are.”
“Want to go home?”
“Desperately.”
They changed their flights and were back in Willowbrook two days later.
“That was the shortest honeymoon in history,” Margot said when they told her.
“We’re homebodies,” Ivy admitted. “We tried to be adventurous international travelers. It didn’t work.”
“You’re also workaholics who can’t be away from your businesses for more than a week.”
“That too.”
But being home felt right. They spent the rest of their “honeymoon” working half days and spending afternoons together. Cooking in their kitchen. Walking through town. Being domestic and boring and perfectly happy.
Six months into marriage, Ivy had news.
She’d been feeling off for a week—exhausted, nauseous, emotional. She blamed stress. Too much work. Not enough sleep.
Then she realized she was late.
The pregnancy test was positive.
She stared at it for a full five minutes, heart pounding.
A baby. They were having a baby.
They’d talked about kids, but in abstract “someday” terms. Not now. Not when they were still building their businesses. Still figuring out marriage.
But here it was. Happening.
She told Bash that evening after service.
He was in their kitchen, making dinner, when she said, “I have news.”
“Good news or bad news?”
“I… don’t know yet. Maybe both.”
He turned, concerned. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I’m just—” She took a breath. “I’m pregnant.”
Bash froze. “You’re… what?”
“Pregnant. Having a baby. Our baby. I took three tests. They’re all positive.”
For a long moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Then his face broke into the biggest smile she’d ever seen.
“We’re having a baby,” he said, voice full of wonder.
“We are. Is that—are you okay with that?”
“Am I—Ivy, yes! Yes, I’m more than okay!” He crossed to her and pulled her into his arms. “We’re having a baby!”
“You’re not freaking out?”
“I’m completely freaking out. But in a good way. A terrified, excited, holy shit we’re having a baby way.”
They stood in their kitchen, holding each other, and Ivy felt relief wash over her.
“We can do this, right?” she asked. “Run our businesses and raise a baby?”
“People do it every day. We’ll figure it out.”
“What if I’m a terrible mom?”
“You stress-bake when you’re nervous and talk to your sourdough starters. You’ll be an amazing mom.”
“What if you’re a terrible dad?”
“Then you’ll yell at me and I’ll fix it. That’s how we work.”
Ivy laughed through her tears.
They told people gradually. Leo screamed. Margot cried. Mrs. Fletcher said “I KNEW IT!” and claimed she’d predicted this at the wedding.
“You did not,” Ivy said.
“I absolutely did. I told Harold’s ghost the same night. I said ‘those two will have a baby within a year,’ and look at me being right!”
The town celebrated like it was their own baby. People brought gifts. Offered advice. Started planning the baby shower before Ivy even had a bump.
“This town is going to spoil this baby rotten,” Bash said.
“Absolutely,” Ivy agreed. “And we’re going to let them.”
The pregnancy was mostly smooth.
Ivy had morning sickness that lasted all day. Bash learned to make ginger tea and kept crackers in every room of the house. She had cravings—pickles and ice cream, yes, but also weird combinations like croissants with hot sauce.
“Our baby is going to have such weird taste,” Bash said, watching her eat.
“Our baby is going to be perfect.”
The bump grew. They painted the nursery—sage green with white furniture. Bash built a crib from a kit (it took him six hours and several bouts of French cursing). Ivy washed tiny clothes and cried over how small they were.
“We’re really doing this,” she said, folding onesies.
“We really are.”
They took a birthing class. Bash was the most intense student there, taking notes, asking questions, preparing like he was studying for a Michelin inspection.
“You’re going to be the most prepared dad ever,” Ivy said.
“I’m terrified. Preparation helps.”
“You’ll be amazing.”
“We’ll be amazing. Together.”
At seven months pregnant, Ivy had to take a step back from Sweet Haven.
She still came in for a few hours each morning, but she couldn’t stand for full shifts anymore. Couldn’t lift heavy bags of flour. Needed to rest.
She hated it.
“I feel useless,” she said.
“You’re growing a human,” Bash countered. “That’s the opposite of useless.”
“But the bakery—”
“Is fine. Your staff is amazing. You trained them well. Let them handle it.”
It was hard. Ivy had built Sweet Haven from nothing. Letting go, even temporarily, felt like failure.
But she did it. Because she had to. Because the baby came first.
And slowly, she found a new rhythm. Mornings at the bakery for a few hours. Afternoons at home, resting, reading parenting books. Evenings with Bash, talking about the future.
“What if they hate food?” Bash asked one night.
“Our child? Hate food?”
“It could happen.”
“Bash, we’re both chefs. The baby is going to smell like garlic in the womb. They’ll love food.”
“What if they’re picky?”
“Then we’ll deal with it. Together.”
“What if—”
“Hey.” Ivy took his hand and placed it on her bump. “Feel that?”
The baby kicked. Strong and sure.
“They’re fine,” Ivy said. “We’re fine. It’s going to be okay.”
Bash’s eyes were bright with tears. “I love you both so much already.”
“We love you too.”
At 38 weeks, Ivy’s water broke during dinner service.
She wasn’t even at the restaurant. She was home, in bed, watching TV, when it happened.
She called Bash immediately. “It’s time.”
“What?”
“The baby. It’s happening. My water broke.”
She heard clattering. Shouting. Then: “I’m coming. Don’t move. Don’t do anything. I’m coming right now.”
He was there in three minutes. Helped her to the car. Drove to the hospital while trying to remember breathing techniques from their class.
“You’re panicking,” Ivy said.
“I’m not panicking.”
“Your knuckles are white and you’re breathing like you’re having a heart attack.”
“Okay, I’m panicking. But controlled panicking.”
She laughed through a contraction. “I love you.”
“I love you too. So much. You’ve got this.”
“We’ve got this.”
They got to the hospital. Got checked in. And the waiting began.
Labor was long. Sixteen hours. Bash stayed by her side the entire time. Held her hand. Let her crush his fingers during contractions. Reminded her to breathe when she forgot.
“I can’t do this,” Ivy said at hour fourteen.
“You can. You’re doing it. You’re the strongest person I know.”
“I’m going to die.”
“You’re not going to die. You’re going to meet our baby. Soon.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
At 6:23 AM, after one final push, their daughter was born.
Small and pink and screaming.
Perfect.
The nurse placed her on Ivy’s chest, and the world stopped.
“She’s here,” Ivy breathed.
Bash was crying openly. “She’s perfect.”
“She has your eyes.”
“She has your nose.”
They stared at their daughter—tiny and beautiful and theirs—and Bash thought: This is it. This is everything.
Not the star. Not the success. This.
His wife. His daughter. His family.
“Welcome to the world, baby girl,” Ivy whispered.
And their daughter opened her eyes—gray, just like Bash’s—and looked at them like she knew them already.
Like she’d been waiting for them all along.
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