JAY-JAY POV
Fourth Month
The fourth month felt like the true beginning.
My belly was just starting to show, small but undeniable, and every glance in the mirror reminded me that three little lives were already reshaping me.
Clothes fit differently, sleep came in fragments, and emotions seemed to rise and fall like tides.
Keifer noticed everything.
He'd watch me with quiet awe, as if every change was a miracle.
One evening, I caught him staring while I adjusted my shirt. "What?" I asked, half‑teasing.
He shook his head, smiling softly. "You're glowing. I mean it. Every day, you look more like a mother."
I rolled my eyes, but my heart fluttered. "Or more like someone who eats too many midnight snacks."
That was true — the cravings had begun.
At first, they were simple: fruit, bread, soup.
But soon they grew stranger.
One night I wanted rice with honey.
Another afternoon, I demanded cold noodles with strawberries.
Keifer never questioned me.
He just nodded, grabbed his keys, and disappeared into the kitchen or the store.
"You're spoiling me," I teased one night as he returned with a plate of sliced apples drizzled with chocolate.
He kissed my forehead. "I'm not spoiling you. I'm feeding our chaos."
Mood swings came next.
I cried when the blanket felt too heavy, laughed when Keifer tripped over his shoes, and snapped at him for folding the laundry wrong.
He never argued.
He just held me tighter, whispering, "Storm or sunshine, I'll take it all."
At night, we lay together on the bed, his hand resting gently over my stomach.
The babies weren't strong enough to kick yet, but sometimes I swore I felt a flutter, like tiny wings brushing inside me.
Keifer believed me instantly.
"They're saying hello," he whispered, pressing his lips to my belly.
I laughed, brushing his hair back. "You're ridiculous."
"Maybe," he said, grinning. "But I'll talk to them every day until they answer me."
The fourth month was quieter than what would come later, but it was full of discovery.
My body was changing, my moods were unpredictable, and my cravings were endless.
But Keifer's devotion never wavered.
He was learning to navigate my storms with patience I didn't know he had.
One night, as we lay in the dim glow of the lamp, he whispered, "Jay… I still can't believe it. Three little lives. Our whole world is already different."
I turned to face him, catching the way his eyes glistened. "It's only the beginning."
He kissed me gently, lingering, as if sealing a promise. "Then let's make every moment count."
And in that quiet, I realized: the fourth month wasn't just about change.
It was about us — learning to carry the storm together, one day at a time.
Fifth Month
The fifth month felt like crossing into new territory.
My belly had rounded enough that every movement reminded me I wasn't alone anymore.
Even simple things — bending down, rolling over in bed, reaching for the top shelf — became small challenges.
I laughed at myself sometimes, but there were nights when frustration crept in, and tears followed without warning.
Keifer was always there.
He seemed to anticipate my moods before I even spoke.
When I sighed too heavily, he was at my side with a pillow.
When I frowned at my reflection, he wrapped his arms around me from behind and whispered, "You're beautiful. More beautiful than ever."
We developed quiet routines.
In the evenings, he'd sit beside me with his hand resting on my stomach, waiting.
The babies had grown stronger, their movements more distinct.
Sometimes it felt like tiny waves rolling inside me, other times sharp nudges that made me gasp.
Keifer's eyes lit up every time. "They're saying goodnight," he whispered, pressing his lips to my belly.
I teased him often. "You talk to them more than you talk to me."
He grinned, unashamed. "They need to know their dad's voice. And you already know my heart."
The cravings shifted into comfort foods.
I wanted warm rice, soft bread, and soups that reminded me of home.
Keifer learned quickly, experimenting in the kitchen, sometimes failing spectacularly but never giving up.
One night, he burned the rice and nearly set off the smoke alarm.
I laughed until my sides hurt, and he bowed dramatically, declaring, "I'll master this for you and for them."
But the fifth month wasn't only about food or laughter.
It was about the quiet moments when fear slipped in.
One evening, I confessed softly, "Keif… what if I'm not ready? What if I can't handle three at once?"
He turned to me, his expression serious, his hand firm over mine. "Jay, you're stronger than you think. And you're not alone. We'll learn together. I'll be there every step, every sleepless night, every storm."
His words wrapped around me like a promise, steady and unshakable.
At night, when the house was silent, I lay in his arms, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat.
The babies stirred inside me, restless but alive, and I realized something profound:
this wasn't just pregnancy.
It was the beginning of a family, the weaving of love into every breath, every kick, every whispered promise.
The fifth month was a turning point.
My body was changing faster than I could keep up, my emotions swung wildly, and the babies grew stronger every day.
But Keifer's devotion never faltered.
He was learning to carry my storms, and I was learning to trust his calm.
And in that quiet, I knew: the chaos inside me was already filling the world with love.
Sixth Month
The sixth month carried a new rhythm.
My belly had grown enough that I could no longer hide the way I moved — slower, deliberate, protective of the three little lives inside me.
My body felt like it belonged to someone else, shifting in ways I couldn't predict.
Keifer became more attentive than ever.
He started keeping a notebook, jotting down every detail I mentioned: when I felt pressure, when I felt light, when I thought the babies were awake.
"I don't want to forget anything," he explained, his handwriting messy but determined.
Evenings became our sanctuary.
He'd dim the lights, settle beside me, and place his hand over my stomach.
The babies responded differently now — not just kicks, but rolls, stretches, movements that felt like they were exploring their tiny world.
Keifer's eyes widened every time. "They're growing," he whispered, awe in his voice.
I found myself craving comfort in sound.
Music became my companion.
Keifer played soft melodies on his phone, sometimes humming along.
"They'll remember this," he said, pressing his lips to my belly. "They'll know we sang to them before they were born."
The sixth month wasn't easy.
My back ached, my legs swelled, and sleep slipped away more often than not.
But Keifer's steady presence turned discomfort into something bearable.
He didn't just care for me — he celebrated every change, every sign that our chaos was alive and thriving.
Seventh Month
By the seventh month, my body felt stretched to its limits.
The babies pressed against me constantly, their movements stronger, their presence undeniable.
I struggled to find balance, both physically and emotionally.
Keifer introduced a new ritual: evening walks.
He held my hand firmly, guiding me through the quiet streets, reminding me to breathe deeply, to move slowly.
"Fresh air will help," he said, his voice gentle.
I leaned against him, grateful for the steadiness he offered.
Cravings shifted again. I wanted cold things — chilled fruit, icy drinks, frozen treats. Keifer stocked the freezer, laughing when I demanded ice cubes in everything. "You're turning into winter," he teased, handing me a glass.
But the moods were sharper.
I cried when the shoes I loved no longer fit, when my favorite dress felt too tight, when I couldn't bend down to pick something up.
Keifer never let me linger in sadness.
He knelt, kissed my swollen feet, and whispered, "Every change is proof they're growing. And you're still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
Nights were restless, but they were also intimate.
We lay together, his hand tracing circles on my belly, his voice low as he spoke to the babies. "You'll meet us soon," he whispered. "But until then, stay safe inside Mama."
The seventh month was heavy, but it was also full of tenderness. Every step, every sigh, every tear was met with Keifer's unwavering devotion.
Eighth Month
The eighth month was overwhelming.
My belly felt enormous, my body tired, and the babies seemed to have endless energy.
They pressed against me constantly, their kicks sharp, their movements insistent.
Keifer became more protective.
He insisted I rest, bringing me water, adjusting pillows, refusing to let me lift even the smallest thing.
"You're carrying the world," he said firmly. "Let me carry everything else."
We spent evenings preparing quietly.
He folded tiny clothes, arranged blankets, checked the cribs again and again. I watched him, tears in my eyes. "You're already a father," I whispered.
He looked at me, his expression soft. "And you're already the best mother."
Cravings turned simple.
I wanted plain rice, warm soup, nothing extravagant.
Keifer cooked patiently, sitting beside me as I ate, his eyes never leaving mine.
"You're tired," he said one night.
I nodded, leaning against him. "But I'm happy," I whispered.
The eighth month was exhausting, but it was also full of quiet preparation. Every moment felt like waiting, like holding our breath before the storm broke.
Ninth Month
The ninth month was the hardest.
My body felt heavy, my breaths shorter, and the babies seemed ready to burst into the world.
Every kick was stronger, every movement sharper, every day longer than the last.
Keifer never left my side.
He held me through the tears, laughed with me through the cravings, and kissed my belly every night.
"Three little storms," he whispered, "but Mama will always be our calm."
We spent hours imagining their futures — names, dreams, the way they'd laugh, the way they'd cry.
Keifer's eyes glistened every time he spoke of our daughter.
"She'll be my princess," he whispered. "And the boys… they'll be my shadows."
I leaned against him, my heart aching with love. "They're ours. All three of them."
And as the days counted down, I knew: the chaos was alive, growing, and already filling the world with love.