Page 35 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

I nod solemnly. “Understood.”

He pushes it into my hand anyway, then points at his dinosaurs. “They’re stuck.”

“Where are they stuck?” I ask.

“In a volcano.”

I make a dramatic face. “That sounds extremely dangerous.”

Evan’s eyes light up. “It is. You have to save them.”

So I do.

I narrate every move like it’s a blockbuster movie. I make the rescue truck sound effects. I make the dinosaurs roar and complain about lava.

Evan laughs so hard he falls backward onto the rug, clutching his stomach.

Okay, so this isn’t teaching. But it’s special, strengthening the bond.

The sound of his laughter is like sunlight.

I didn’t realize how tightly I’ve been holding myself for two months, like if I stayed braced, nothing could catch me off guard.

Kids don’t let you stay braced. They’ll crawl right into your lap and demand you pretend to be a dragon and not care if your heart is quietly breaking.

By noon, Evan is comfortable enough to start bossing me around properly.

“You can’t sit there,” he informs me when I choose a spot on the couch.

“Why not?”

“That’s Daddy’s spot.”

I glance at the couch. “He won’t mind.”

Evan shakes his head. “He will.”

I slide over obediently. “Okay. Where can I sit?”

He points to the other end. “There.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

He grins wildly, then climbs up beside me, leaning his shoulder into mine.

My chest aches again, soft and sharp.

I wonder when Evan learned to keep track of grown-up emotions like this. When he learned that Daddy has a spot and it matters, and you don’t mess with it.

Five is too young to be that careful.

But then, five is the age when the world teaches you too much, too fast.

After lunch—mac and cheese, because I’m not trying to impress anyone on day one—Evan refuses his scheduled quiet time with impressive stubbornness.

“I’m not tired.”

“You yawned three times,” I point out.