I smothered a laugh. “Nothing wrong with his hearing. Come on, my babies.”
I settled the twins with a video in the family room and returned to my sisters in the kitchen.
“She wrote about us in her blog,” Amy said, looking up from Jo’s phone. “Like, a story from when we were younger. It’s so weird.”
Jo sniffed. “But do you like it?”
“Yeah, it’s cool. It’s good.” She scrolled, still reading. “Was I really such a spoiled brat?”
“You’re not a brat,” I said.
Jo grinned. “Just spoiled.”
Amy stuck out her tongue. “You always did have to play the hero.”
“Hey, it’s my story,” Jo said. “When you write the story, you can be the hero.”
“You just wait,” Amy said.
“So.” I opened the fridge and pulled out a package of chicken thighs. “Eric’s reading your blog now.”
“I sent him a link. I never expected...” Jo got up from the table and started assembling ingredients for a salad. “I guess I thought... I hoped he would text me.”
“You’re disappointed.”
“No. I mean, this is better, right?” My sister’s eyes were shining. “He commented on my blog.”
Amy filched a carrot from the cutting board. “Lots of people comment on your blog. I don’t see why that’s so special.”
“That’s why they broke up,” I explained. “Because of something she wrote.”
“Oh. So, it’s like a peace offering.”
“His mother’s recipe,” Jo repeated, like she couldn’t get over it.
Amy shrugged. “I still think he should have called. Or texted. This is sort of stalker creepy.”
“He is not a stalker,” Jo declared.
“He left you a package on the porch. That saysstalkerto me. You should be more careful about setting boundaries.”
Jo’s eyes narrowed dangerously. And then she laughed. “Look who’s talking. Instagram queen.”
Amy smiled like a cat in the cream.
“All right, children,” I said. To my sisters? The twins? “Time to wash up for supper.”
Peace restored, we cleared away the nail polish and set the table.
It wasn’t until much later, after my sisters had left for the farm, that I had a chance to open my computer and read Jo’s blog for myself.
A wave of longing rolled over me as I read. The story was so Jo. It was sous, the way we used to be. The wave receded, leaving an ache behind.
I was reading the comments—almost a hundred of them—when John came into the kitchen. “Down for the count,” he reported.
I managed a wobbly smile. “Thanks, honey.” Bedtime with Daddy was becoming a routine. A good one, for all of us.
He put his hand on my shoulder. “You okay, babe?”
