Page 140 of Lose You Twice

And still, when Daisy drops half her sandwich, Wren reaches for a napkin before anyone else moves. When Justin asks where his calculator is, she tells him exactly which backpack pocket without looking. When Holden quietly brings a dose of the medicine for Lily, she lets him give it to her, but only after checking the label one more time.

I watch all of it, and something aches behind my ribs.

This is her reality right now, and it’s a lot for one person, especially one person who’s juggling more than she should have to.

A sick little girl sweating against her shoulder. A brother trying to grow up too fast. Another brother hiding stress under sarcasm. Wren holding the whole room together with two hands and a sandwich she’s barely touched.

“You need to eat,” I say quietly.

Her eyes cut to mine.

I expect the glare, but at least she picks up her sandwich.

Later, Justin does homework at the kitchen table while Holden quizzes him with the patience of a saint. Daisy falls asleep first, folded sideways in the armchair with the blanket cape still over one shoulder. Lily fights it longer, insisting she is “resting her eyeballs” until she drops off against Wren’s side.

I help carry Daisy upstairs.

She wakes halfway and pats my shoulder. “You smell good. Like those candies Wren likes.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. She likes the smell they have and eats them. I think the candle in her room smells like the candy too.”

I make a mental note to investigate that later, because if I recall correctly, Wren hates anything peppermint flavored.

In her room, I set her down carefully, cover her up, and head back downstairs, leaving the door cracked slightly.

When I make it back to the living room, Holden takes Lily from the couch with surprising gentleness and carries her upstairs to bed. Justin finally finishes his homework and goes up after them, complaining the whole way about having to shower tonight instead of in the morning.

By 8:30, the house is finally quiet.

Wren and I stand in the kitchen, surrounded by sandwich wrappers and medicine cups, neither of us knowing how to start the conversation we eventually need to have.

I gather trash because it gives my hands something to do.

She leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching me. “You don’t have to clean.”

“I know.” I toss wrappers into the bag. “You going to stop me?”

“No.”

“Then I’m cleaning.”

She watches me for another second, then looks away.

The moment stretches.

I tie off the trash bag and set it by the back door. When I turn, she’s still at the counter. Her hair has come loose around her face. Her eyes are tired and guarded in a way that makes me want to just hold her.

“You okay?” I ask.

She lets out a small laugh. “That question is becoming a problem for us.”

“I can ask a different one.”

“Like what?”

I look at her.