Before our second baby arrived I found myself wondering if my heart was big enough to hold love for another child. It’s something I’ve heard many say before—how they were unsure if they could love another baby the same way they love their first. As I stood on the cusp of becoming a mom of two, I couldn’t shake the question. Would my love spread thin between these two precious beings? Would there be a part of my heart that had to be reserved, leaving me with less for each child? Seven months later, I can confidently say that my love hasn’t been divided; it has grown exponentially in a way I didn’t even know was possible.

With each passing day, I realize that love isn’t a finite resource. It doesn’t shrink when it is shared; it simply multiplies. The bond I share with my firstborn has deepened as she’s taken on her new role as an older sister. She’s proud, she’s protective, and she’s more compassionate than I ever imagined. And for my second child, the love I feel for her is no less than the love I had for my first, but it’s uniquely different—filled with a kind of fierce protectiveness and an overwhelming sense of awe at how quickly she is growing. The love I have for both girls doesn’t feel like rationed between them. Instead, it has expanded to encompass both of their individual needs, personalities, and milestones.

When we first began discussing the possibility of expanding our family, we agreed that two children was an ideal number. It felt like a sweet spot—affordable, practical, and giving both girls the gift of a playmate and lifelong friend. We were both content with that decision, and it seemed like the perfect balance. But now, as our firsts begin to turn into lasts, I can’t help but wonder if I have more love to give.

The lasts are bittersweet and milestones are tinged with an ache that I didn’t expect. My firstborn has reached so many lasts as she transitions from toddlerhood to childhood, and my baby girl is steadily ticking through her firsts, marking milestones that will soon be in the past. There’s something about these stages, the finality of them, that feels like they are slipping through my fingers.

I’ve always been told that when your family feels complete, you’ll just know. It’s something that seems to be said by everyone from relatives to friends to strangers in the grocery store. But as I stand here, looking at my family, I don’t have that overwhelming sense of finality that I was expecting to feel the moment our youngest came screaming into the world. I thought that at some point over the last few months I’d feel a shift, a definitive moment when I would know, without a doubt, that our family was complete. But that moment hasn’t come.

Don’t get me wrong, I am so ready to be done with sleepless nights, washing bottles and never ending diaper changes. After working hard the last seven months to feel myself again, the idea of managing another pregnancy and postpartum journey sounds unmanageable, but even now, saying the words “last baby” feels so permanent, so ultimate. I’ve found myself avoiding the phrase entirely, as if saying it out loud would somehow make it real. The possibility of another baby, no matter how microscopic, seems more bearable to me than the thought of closing the door on this chapter forever. It’s as if the door can still be left ajar, just a little bit. The bassinet that’s tucked away in the spare bedroom closet, gathering dust, feels like it could still be needed one day. The thought of packing it away for good feels like a decision too final to make just yet.

Perhaps it’s the exhaustion of motherhood that makes me hold onto the possibility, or perhaps it’s the love I’ve discovered I have in me, a love that continues to grow and stretch in ways I hadn’t imagined. I don’t know when or if I’ll ever feel that moment of certainty, but for now, I’m trying to embrace the uncertainty. I’m savoring these days with my two beautiful daughters, knowing that even if our family is “complete” in a practical sense, there will always be more room in my heart to love, and that’s something I can hold on to.