The laundry is never-ending with an active five-year-old who has recently discovered the joys of cartwheeling in the backyard, and who has a habit of wearing whatever he’s eating.
“You didn’t move in to do our laundry. We take care of that on weekends, like we usually do with housework," Murph said quietly but firmly.
The guys come home from work, filling the house with conversation and laughter, asking about our day as I ask about theirs, and Ben runs circles around everyone.
Dinner is easy.
Win throws together a quick meal of pasta, meat sauce, garlic toast, and green beans. Ben gives Win, Murph, and Joel’s plates a quick glance, then eats his green beans without needing a bribe.
I fall asleep on the couch after dinner, waking up with a blanket covering me, the TV on low, and Murph, Win, and Joel sitting cross-legged on the floor building Lego with Ben.
And I just watch them, knowing one of them will soon realize I’m awake and this perfect moment will end, but for now, I soak up their quiet conversation and laughter with a stupid smile on my face.
Murph looks at me, does a double-take, and winces. “Sorry, did we wake you?”
Still smiling, I shake my head. “No, you didn’t wake me. Got room for one more before it’s this little one’s bedtime?” I get up from the couch.
Win scoots over. “Sure. And watch out for that?—”
I wince. “Too late.”
I lift my foot, and Joel picks up the Lego I stepped on. “Sorry. I was actually looking for that piece.”
I sit cross-legged on the floor, tempted to grab my phone for a quick photo, but I cherish this moment instead.
Chapter 11
Rose
It’s 6:30 a.m., and Ben is quiet.
My son isneverquiet this early unless he’s getting into something he shouldn’t be or is sick. Both concern me.
He’s like an overexcited cat, jumping on me, crawling over my legs and my belly, demanding to know what we’re doing, where we’re going, and why I’m not moving yet. A loud, trampling, sometimes painful alarm clock I couldn’t ignore even if I wanted to.
I get up and go looking for my son.
He’s not in his bed, which brings back memories of my terror in the motel room, waking to find him gone and our door open. I swear that experience scarred me for life.
Frowning, I hurry to my room, snag a robe, and belt it as I hurry downstairs.
Halfway down, I hear his voice. When a male voice follows it, I slow down before I tumble down the stairs. He’s not alone, so he can’t be up to mischief while someone is with him. Tracking the low murmurs down the stairs and through the entryway, I peek into the kitchen.
I lean against the kitchen doorframe, smiling as I watch my son with Win. Win is dressed for the day in blue jeans and a t-shirt, his long brown hair tied back. He’s at the dining table. Ben is still in his car pajamas, hair messy, standing on a dining chair beside him.
“You wanna mix that real good,” Win says, holding the large white bowl.
Ben grabs the wooden spoon with both hands and mixes as hard as he can. “Like that?”
Win hums, then glances at Ben. “That’s it. How’d you get eggshell in your hair when I was the one doing the cracking?”
I grin.
“Mommy says whatever I touch always ends up on my face and in my hair,” Ben solemnly announces. “She says it’s like magic.”
My body trembles with barely suppressed laughter, and I bite the inside of my cheek to stop any sound from escaping.
Win chuckles. “Well, she wasn’t joking. We’ll have to get you cleaned up before we take this up to her. Don’t want her to think you’re down here rolling over food.”
