I stand at the back door as I watch her scoop him up, resting him on her hip.
This is my favorite view—the two of them.
“What do you think of your birthday party, Bug?” Miller bounces him on her hip. “Is this all for you?”
“Yes,” Max says, hiding against her shoulder.
“I think we should go explore.”
I already knew they were close, but that bond has only strengthened since Miller officially moved in six months ago. A day hasn’t gone by that she hasn’t kissed him before bed or been with me to wake him in the morning.
Their love for each other is so evident.
Last month Max caught a little cold and, instead of me, the only person he wanted was his mom. My ego took a small hit but getting to see her confidence towards motherhood grow was well worth the blow.
I follow them into the backyard as Miller puts Max on his feet so he can play with the giant toy lion sitting on the ground by the dessert table.
“This looks amazing, baby.” I slide my arms around her waist from behind, chin leaning on her shoulder.
“Yeah? Do you think there are enough balloons? I have more inside I could blow up.”
I couldn’t tell you where she’d fit more balloons. There’s a balloon arch around the dessert and drink table. Over the photo backdrop. You walk through a balloon arch in the entryway of the house. I couldn’t count how many giant gold number two balloons are floating around out here.
I chuckle. “Yeah, we should probably get more out here. I’m not sure if people will understand this is a birthday party.”
She swats me in the thigh, but I catch her hand, pulling it to my lips. “It’s perfect.”
“Is it, though? I want it to be perfect for him.”
I sway with her as we look down at our son, who has now found his way to sitting on the toy lion as if it were a horse.
“I’m fairly certain this is going to be the best day of his life.”
My eyes drift back to the dessert table she’s working on. A tiered cake sits in the middle, each layer a different animal print. Cupcakes, brownies, and mini pies surround the table as well, all done in some sort of safari-themed way.
“These look perfect, Mills.” Reaching around her, I pop a mini brownie in my mouth. “Holy hell,” I moan.
“Kai,” she scolds with a laugh. “Those are for the guests.”
“We should cancel. The three of us can polish these off.”
“I worked way too hard on those not to share them.” She turns back to the table to cover the small gap I made on her brownie plate before she finds me over her shoulder. “But yeah, they’re good?”
Even after all this time and all this success, she still looks for approval from the people she loves, wanting them to love what she created.
I lean over her shoulder to kiss her. “They’re amazing. Everyone is going to love them.”
And when I say everyone, I don’t just mean our friends and family. I’m referring to all of Chicago.
Back in October, Miller became the owner of a little brick building on the North Side of Chicago. She spent the winter months hard at work gutting the place and turning it into her very own bakery. M’s Patisserie has only been open for six weeks and has yet to make it through scheduled business hours before selling out of her baked goods.
Violet, Miller’s agent, went to work spreading the word about the James Beard winner’s latest endeavor. She’s been written about in travel and food magazines. Her business’s social media already has an incredible following and each morning when they open, they’re greeted by a line around the block of both locals and tourists eager to try her creations.
I wouldn’t be surprised if she opened a second location by the end of the year, but for now, she’s enjoying finding success in something she loves, something with her name on it.
Though, she has yet to admit who M’s Patisserie is named for.
It could be for her own name or for Max, Me, or Monty. But when asked, she simply says it’s named after all her favorite people.
The bakery has a back room that serves as a cooking classroom. On Tuesdays she teaches baking basics, but every Thursday, she features a specialty dish on her menu. They’re the type of dishes she would’ve showcased when she was in the high-end restaurant world. She sells out every Thursday before noon then, that evening, she hosts a class and teaches people exactly how to make it for themselves.
That particular class is booked three months out already.
Miller works four days a week and entrusts the other three to her staff. And every day she comes home from work, she’s wearing an exhausted but fulfilled smile on her face. It’s the daily confirmation that she made the right choice all those months ago when she returned to Chicago. She came back not just for me or Max, but also for herself.