My mouth twitches despite myself, and I settle in to watch the movie about talking animals that I’ve seen no less than a hundred times.
Okay, maybe it’s in the several dozens.
But I can quote every line—that’s got to count for something.
“Maybe your dad should make his own blanket,” Finn says innocently.Tooinnocently. “Then we canallmultitask.”
“That’s okay.” I begin. “I?—”
“Yes!” Chloe pauses the movie and starts issuing orders. “Finn will get you the fabric, Daddy. And you can make the popcorn.”
“Excuse me?”
Finn bites her lip, clearly trying not to laugh.
“Did you justorderme to make popcorn?” I ask dryly.
“Yup.”
“Wow.”
“I also want gummies.”
Finn tosses me a guilty look, though her eyes are filled with amusement. “I may have already gotten the gummies,” she stage whispers.
“Traitor,” I mutter.
A shrug. “I’m just here for the children.”
“There’s only one child here.”
Her hazel eyes sparkle as she looks deliberately in my direction. “Now that’s debatable.”
I laugh outright.
And it hurts.
But in the best possible way.
Because I remember a time not so long ago when laughing in this house felt too loud, too bright, too jarring. When it was so easily usurped by grief.
Now…
Now as I get up to make popcorn, Chloe’s grinning and Finn is passing her a bag of gummy worms before going—heaven help me—to her stack of fabric and perusing her choices, it feels normal.
Right.
I plunk the bag of popcorn into the microwave and wait for it to finish before dividing its contents into three bowls.
“Thanks,” Finn murmurs when I go back into the family room and hand her one.
I pass Chloe hers and settle on the other side of her with my own.
“Are you going to show Daddy how to do his blanket?” she asks.
Finn hesitates. “I think your dad probably just wants to relax.”
I should take the out she’s clearly giving me.
