It had become Atlas' private joke that all of his sperm carrying male genes must have gone on strike, since he only ever seemed to produce daughters. Which he was totally fine with, don't get him wrong. He loved all of his girls fiercely, and would kill anyone who even looked at them funny.
But now they were going to have a son. A little boy of their own, born into this new life they'd created for themselves, and he was so excited he thought he'd fall out of the chair. "That's wonderful," he said, finding Pleoine's hand and squeezing it.