Page 9 of Lose You Twice

“Daisy took my purple socks!” Lily shouts before I even reach their doorway.

“They were in my drawer!” Daisy shouts back.

“Because you stole them!”

“I borrowed them for forever!”

I stop in the doorway and take in the battlefield.

Daisy is wearing one purple sock and one pink sock, her curls sleep-wild around her face. Lily is standing on her bed in a unicorn nightgown, one hand on her hip, looking like a tiny judge preparing to sentence someone to stuffy jail.

They’re six, almost seven, and in first grade. Identical in the way strangers think matters and completely different in every way that actually does.

Daisy is sunshine with volume control issues.

Lily is the grump with a soft soul, just hidden deep, deep down.

They’re cute, but feral.

“Okay,” I say, clapping once. “Nobody is going to sock jail today.”

Lily points at Daisy. “She stole my sock.”

Daisy gasps. “It was in my drawer!”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Lily says.

“It means I’m keeping the sock.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Daisy, give Lily the purple sock.”

“But my outfit⁠—”

“Pink sock, pink shirt. Purple sock, purple dress. We talked about this.”

Daisy looks down at herself like this is brand-new information and not the same conversation we had last night while laying out their clothes. “Oh.”

Lily hops off the bed and snatches the sock when Daisy peels it off. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Daisy says, very offended.

“Brush teeth,” I tell them. “We’ll fix your hair after breakfast. Shoes by the door so they’re ready when we are.”

“Can I have braids?” Daisy asks.

“Can I have space buns?” Lily asks.

“You can both have ponytails and gratitude.”

They groan in unison, which feels like cooperation, so I take the win.

By the time I get downstairs, Mom is standing at the counter in navy scrubs, packing her lunch with one hand while trying to drink coffee with the other. Her hair is twisted into a low bun, and there are faint purple shadows under her eyes that no amount of concealer has ever been able to hide.

“Morning,” she says, trying to be way too cheery for how exhausted I know she is.

“Morning.” I grab the lunch boxes from the drying rack. “You should go. You’re going to be late.”

“I have twelve minutes.”