Rebirth: Love me Again
Chapter 364: The Bean Effect

Chapter 364: The Bean Effect

[EVE]

Everyone had been so sure Bean was going to be a girl.

Why? No idea. Intuition? Dreams? The way I craved sour mangoes instead of chocolate? The internet’s "baby gender predictor" quiz? Who knows—but my entire family ran with it like it was prophecy.

So, naturally, the first thing I saw when I returned home from the hospital was a literal sea of pink.

Pink walls. Pink curtains. A pink mobile hanging over the crib with sparkly fairies dancing in circles. There was a tutu-shaped lamp.

A "Princess Bean" onesie in every size. And somehow—somehow—Dean had ordered a custom neon sign that read "Welcome Home, Little Beanette."

Beanette?!

I nearly passed out from laughing.

Dean looked personally betrayed. "But I already had a playlist made—Beyoncé lullabies. What am I supposed to do now, play him Metallica?"

Dante just sighed and rubbed his temple. "All my developmental books were geared for girls. There’s going to be a gap in his education now."

Damien stared at the carefully arranged tea set in the corner of the nursery, then turned to me like the universe had personally offended him. "We painted the walls with organic, non-toxic pink paint. You know how hard that was to find?"

I didn’t have the heart to tell them the baby wouldn’t care either way—especially when Bean, in his tiny blue pajamas, promptly peed on the pink unicorn blanket during his welcome home nap.

They mourned the non-existent girl for about . . . ten minutes.

Then Bean opened his eyes and let out a squeaky hiccup.

Dean was the first to break. "That’s it. He’s my best friend now. I’m canceling my tour. Again."

Dante was next. "He has my nose. Look. Exactly my nose. He will be a doctor. He has no choice."

And Damien? Damien picked him up like he’d been holding babies his whole life, even though I knew this was his first time. He looked into Bean’s barely focused eyes and whispered, "Sorry about the tutu lamp, little guy. I’ll get you a dinosaur one."

From that moment on, they were hooked.

Dean insisted on teaching Bean all the important things in life—like how to make a playlist that tells a story, how to wear sunglasses with attitude, and the perfect angle for a mirror selfie. "He needs style, Eve. If he’s going to be part of this family, he has to know how to smolder before he’s two."

"He could barely speak."

Dante, of course, took over the medical side of things. He checked Bean’s breathing like six times a day and kept charts on his sleep schedule. "If his nap is delayed by twelve minutes, his circadian rhythm could be thrown off for weeks," he muttered one morning, while Bean happily gurgled into a blanket.

Damien—quiet, thoughtful Damien—became Bean’s anchor. Midnight feedings? He was already there. Burping? He had a method. He was the one who hummed lullabies when I was too tired to sing.

Sometimes, I’d wake up and find the two of them on the terrace, Bean wrapped snugly against Damien’s chest in a sling, both of them watching the sunrise like it was a sacred ritual.

"He likes the birds," Damien would whisper when I peeked out. "He makes this little face when they chirp."

I smiled and thought, he would be a good father.

They each had their own way of showing love.

Even Dad, who always seemed so composed, now had a photo of Bean as his phone wallpaper. And Mom? She bought every baby cookbook and was determined to make all Bean’s baby food from scratch. "No store-bought mush for my grandson," she declared, brandishing a blender like a warrior.

Despite the pink explosion, the mismatched decorations, and the tutu lamp (which Dean insisted we keep "for aesthetic balance"), our home had never felt more full.

Bean had somehow become the center of everyone’s universe. He didn’t just bring us joy—he gave us a new kind of laughter, one that came from the belly, from love so big it didn’t matter what color the nursery walls were.

My little boy. My Bean.

He had no idea the chaos he was born into—but he had all the love in the world.

And I knew, watching him nap with a tiny smirk on his lips while Dean argued with Dante over which cartoon had the best life lessons, that he’d be just fine.

Oh, where do I even begin? Having a baby in a house like ours—with my family—is a guaranteed recipe for chaos, hilarity, and the kind of joy that left your stomach sore from laughing.

From the moment Bean was born, it was like someone installed a permanent comedy show in our home. Not a day passed without something absurd or ridiculous happening, usually involving one of my brothers trying to "bond" with him in the weirdest ways imaginable.

Dean, naturally, tried to turn Bean into a mini influencer. He attempted to stage a "candid" photoshoot with Bean wearing tiny sunglasses and a leather jacket. "Just imagine the caption: ’Chillin’ with my milk bottle, no big deal.’" he said, while Bean responded by spitting up on his $300 cashmere sweater.

Dean swore it was a sign of fashion approval. "He’s got taste," he declared, wiping baby puke with a silk pocket square.

Dean also kept trying to teach Bean how to wink. "It’s all in the timing," he said, squinting dramatically at the baby.

Bean responded with a fart loud enough to echo in the hallway. We’re still not sure if it was approval or protest.

Dante, being the ever-serious doctor, treated Bean like a combination of science experiment and royalty. He had a mini stethoscope. A clipboard. Charts. Graphs.

At one point, he tried to calculate Bean’s "projected adult height" based on toe length. He got peed on mid-measurement. "It’s okay," he said, dripping wet. "He’s healthy. Very hydrated."

Then came the time Dante attempted to introduce Baby Sign Language. He spent two hours teaching Bean how to "sign" for milk. Bean stared blankly, then sneezed directly into Dante’s face.

Damien, though calm and collected, wasn’t spared either. One night, he volunteered for diaper duty at 3 a.m. We heard him whispering, "Okay, little guy, just a quick change and then back to bed—easy peasy."

Five minutes later, he shouted, "CODE YELLOW! CODE YELLOW!" while running down the hallway with a soaked onesie in one hand and Bean giggling in the other.