Page 72 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

I read the text again.

I can get you your job back.

I have to put the phone down on the counter because it’s burning me.

And the worst part is… I’ve already tried to figure it out.

Late at night, when Evan’s asleep and the house is quiet, I’ve scrolled through countless old emails and school pages and staff directories as if I might find the missing piece hidden in plain sight. I’ve Googled the school name with the words “rumor” and “complaint” and “termination” attached like a desperate prayer.

Nothing.

No public record. No explanation. No trace of the disaster that blew my life apart.

It’s as if it never happened.

Evan is watching me again.

“You’re making your worried face,” he says.

My throat tightens. “I’m fine, buddy.”

He pauses, then pushes his dinosaur car toward me across the table. “You can play.”

The sweetness of it hits me hard.

He doesn’t know my life before this house, before the safe routines and bedtime stories. He just knows I’m here. And that I sometimes look like I’m about to disappear.

I force a smile that feels more real than it did a week ago, because Evan deserves real. “Thank you.”

I roll the dinosaur car back and forth once. “Wow. He’s fast.”

Evan’s face lights up instantly. “He’s the fastest.”

“Obviously,” I agree.

I manage to get through the morning.

Wayne leaves for the garage as always. A kiss on Evan’s head, a murmur of be good, a glance at me that’s too quick and too careful. He’s not cold anymore, not like that first awful day, but he’s still guarded. Still pretending there isn’t tension in every shared space.

Some days, I can almost convince myself it doesn’t matter.

Other days, I feel a live wire loose in the walls.

Today, my brain is too busy spiraling about Max to obsess over Wayne’s restraint. Never mind consider what happened with Fletcher and his promise of a date. Which, despite weeks passing, hasn’t actually materialized yet…

By mid-morning, Evan is dressed, shoes on the wrong feet at first because he insists on doing it himself, and we’re out the door.

We don’t have preschool today as it’s one of our lighter days.

And I need out of the house.

Apparently, Redwood River is the kind of place you go when you need to remember that the world existed before your problems did. The water under the bridge keeps moving, not caring about your fears or your regrets or your messy choices.

Evan chatters the whole drive, legs kicking in his car seat.

“Can dinosaurs swim?” he asks out of nowhere.

“I think some of them could,” I say.