“Amen,” the other kids repeated with varying levels of enthusiasm.
For a few minutes, there was relative peace. The sound of forks on plates. Rome slurping his spaghetti in a way that would have made Marco laugh. Paris eating with a surprising delicacy for a five-year-old.
Then Fury knocked over his milk.
“It’s everywhere!” Rome shouted, even though it was maybe four ounces.
“I got it!” Blaze was already up, grabbing paper towels.
Aspen watched the white puddle spread across the table with fascinated attention, like it was a science experiment rather than a mess.
“It’s okay,” I said, helping Blaze mop it up. “Accidents happen.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Theresa,” Fury said, his eyes welling up.
“Hey.” I crouched beside his chair. “It’s just milk. We have more milk. No big deal.”
“Dad says I need to be more careful.”
“Your dad also knows that six-year-olds and milk cups are a dangerous combination.” I ruffled his hair. “You’re fine, buddy.”
By the time we finished eating, there was sauce on the table, on at least three shirts, and somehow on the wall behind Rome’s chair. But everyone was fed. Nobody was crying. I was calling it a victory.
“Can we play now?” Rome asked, already bouncing in his chair.
I looked at the disaster of a kitchen—plates everywhere, pots in the sink, sauce splattered across surfaces I’d need to deep-clean later.
“Let me just?—”
“Mom.” Austin was loading plates into the dishwasher without being asked. “I can clean up. You should play with them.”
“Are you sure?”
My oldest son nodded, already scraping plates.
“What do you want to play, Rome?”
What followed was two hours of impromptu theater. Paris declared herself director, casting Rome as a dragon, Fury as a knight, and Blaze as a reluctant wizard. We raided the linen closet for capes and makeshift costumes, turning the living room into a stage. I was assigned the role of "Townsperson Number One," tasked with screaming dramatically whenever the dragon roared.
Aspen watched from her highchair, clapping her hands every time Rome bellowed, while I found myself engaged, laughing until my sides hurt as Fury tried to duel Rome with a spatula.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, the tight knot in my chest loosened slightly. I could breathe.
Eventually, bedtime called. Getting six kids bathed, teeth brushed, pajamas on, and into beds was its own kind of marathon. Rome fell asleep mid-protest. Blaze settled with quiet efficiency. Paris required three trips for water. Aspen drifted off mid-story.
Austin was last. I found him in bed with his book, his reading lamp casting a warm glow.
“Goodnight, sweetheart.” I kissed his forehead.
“Night, Mom.” He paused. “Today was good.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “It was.”
Chapter
Fourteen
THERESA
