“Christ,” I mumble through the toothbrush. “You look wrecked.”
The sound of Ruby crying trickles through from down the hall. Of course. It’s always when I brush my teeth. It’s like they have some sixth sense for the moment I do something remotely for myself.
I head down the hall, flicking the light off as I go. Ruby’s little curls are sticking to her forehead, and her eyes are glassy in the dim nightlight.
“Mummy,” Ruby whimpers, sitting up. “Cuggle pwease”
My heart pinches as I give her the biggest squeeze.
Ruby beams sleepily, clutching her stuffed bunny.
“Mummy,” Ruby murmurs, eyes drooping. “Stay little bit?”
I sigh, quietly. “Just a minute.”
I sit on the rocking chair in the corner of Ruby and Sophie’s room, brushing my fingers over Ruby’s hair. The room smells like bubble bath and that faint, sweet scent kids have, like innocence mixed with crumbs. I watch her chest rise and fall, until it falls into a gentle, slow rhythm.
“Night, Rubes,” I whisper, heading over to Sophie. “Love you to the moon.”
“Wuv you to space,” Ruby mumbles, already half asleep.
Sophie, sweet little Sophie, lays there perfectly tucked in without a single hair out of place. Her eyelashes twitch as she dreams away. I lay a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Night sweetie,” I whisper as I head to the door.
I close the door softly and head for Oscar’s room next. The door’s ajar, and he’s sprawled across the bed like a starfish, one leg dangling off the edge, duvet nowhere near him. The lamp’s still on, and there’s an open book face down beside him; something about dinosaurs. Always dinosaurs.
I brush his hair back from his forehead. He looks so peaceful when he’s asleep. It’s like all the day’s noise and chaos evaporate, and I can finally see him as the little boy he still is underneath it all, not the whirlwind who refuses to eat anything green or insists that wearing socks is “a violation of his freedom.”
I lean down and kiss him. “You drive me mad,” I whisper, “but I wouldn’t trade you for the world.”
“Hmm?” he mumbles in his sleep.
“Nothing, baby,” I say, standing up. “Go back to sleep.”
My last stop is the hallway again. I pause, listening. Silence. For the first time all day. It’s so quiet it’s almost unnerving. Like my ears are ringing from the sudden lack of chaos.
I peek into the master bedroom. Dan’s already in bed, the duvet pulled up to his chin, one leg sticking out like always. He’s snoring softly, the steady rise and fall of his chest maddeningly peaceful. How does he just... switch off? How does he get to close his eyes and check out, while I’m still carrying the weight of everything that happened today and everything that has to happen tomorrow?
I sit on the edge of the bed for a moment, studying Dan’s face in the low light. The shadow of stubble along his jaw. The line between his brows that wasn’t there when we met. His hand resting on the mattress, fingers loose.
He’s still beautiful to me.
That’s the inconvenient part.
Even now. Even like this.
Sometimes, when he laughs properly, not the polite work laugh, the real one, something in my stomach still flips. Sometimes when he walks into a room in just a T-shirt and joggers, I remember exactly how his hands feel all over my body. The same body that hasn’t forgotten, even if the rest of me seems to have.
Desire hasn’t disappeared.
It’s just… tired.
I reach out, almost touching his arm, then stop. I don’t know if I’m reaching for comfort or something else.
And truthfully, I have not got the energy for something else.
He shifts in his sleep, turning away slightly.
The small space between us feels bigger than it should.
