I stand there watching them longer than I mean to.
When I married Natalie it was supposed to solve a problem.
A strategic decision.
A protective move.
But watching her kneel next to my daughter in a flour covered kitchen while her dog looks like a pink mustached clown is not something strategy can explain.
Natalie fits here.
Not awkwardly.
Not temporarily.
She just fits.
Like she has been part of this house longer than a few weeks.
Natalie wipes flour off her cheek.
I step closer.
Look at her for a second.
Then swipe a streak of flour across the tip of her nose.
She freezes.
Slowly lifts her eyes to mine.
"You did not."
Maddie screams with laughter.
"He flour-attacked you," she shouts.
Natalie grabs a handful of flour and throws it at my chest.
"War," she says.
"Natalie," I warn.
Too late.
Maddie joins immediately.
Daisy barks like this is the best day of her life.
For thirty seconds the kitchen becomes a battlefield.
Flour everywhere.
Natalie laughing so hard she can barely stand.
Maddie launching tiny handfuls like a glitter cannon.
Eventually we all stop because the oven timer dings again.
