Page 34 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

We eat breakfast at the kitchen table while Wayne moves around us with the quiet, efficient energy of someone who’s spent years doing everything alone. Coffee. Lunchbox. Keys. Work boots.

He talks to Evan softly, asks him about his dinosaur dream, and kisses the top of his head before he leaves.

He doesn’t look at me for longer than half a second.

Which is fine. Absolutely fine.

It’s not like I laid awake last night staring at the ceiling of his home and replaying the way he said my name like it meant something.

It’s not as if I woke up alone, sheets cold on his side, and felt a stupid little sting I had no right to feel.

This is a job.

A job I need.

So I smile when Wayne says, “I’ll be back around five. Mom might stop in.”

“Okay,” I manage.

His gaze flicks to me, and then away again. Clearly, he’s afraid of what he’ll see on my face.

He leaves.

And I exhale so hard my shoulders drop.

Evan watches me over his spoon.

“You breathe loud,” he announces.

I blink. “I do?”

He nods gravely. “Daddy does that too when he’s mad.”

“I’m not mad,” I say quickly, then soften it. “I’m just tired.”

Evan considers this, then pushes his cereal closer to me, offering a peace treaty.

I grin despite myself. “Thanks, buddy.”

He beams. “Buddy.”

And just like that, the day begins.

Evan’s routine is a mix of structure and insanity. He likes the same things at the same time. Snack at ten, play outside after, quiet time after lunch, but he also has the attention span of a caffeinated squirrel. He’ll be building a block tower one second and then sprinting down the hall the next because he suddenly remembered he owns a toy dump truck and it has urgent business.

I follow him through it all, trying to find the rhythm of this house.

We start with toys.

Not the chaotic, dumping-everything-out kind. Evan is oddly particular. He lines things up. Dinosaurs grouped by “scary” and “not scary.” Cars in a neat row.

He squints at me when I reach for one.

“That one’s not for crashing,” he says, looking scandalized.

“Oh,” I whisper, like I’m being trusted with classified information. “Sorry. What’s it for?”

He leans in. “It’s for rescue.”