Page 132 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

He considers that gravely. “We should test it.”

“Absolutely not,” I say. “We do not test roller skates on predators.”

He beams at me as if I’ve just handed him a Nobel Prize.

Wayne watches us from the kitchen doorway, coffee in hand. There’s something softer in his expression lately. Still careful. Still thinking too much. But softer.

I cling to that.

After Wayne leaves for work, Evan insists we build “a workshop for toy making” in the garage. He drags over a milk crate and sets up a pile of plastic tools next to my actual ones.

“I’m sanding,” he declares, rubbing a block against absolutely nothing.

“What are you sanding?” I ask.

“Feelings,” he says confidently.

I blink.

“Excuse me?”

He nods. “Dad says sanding makes things smooth.”

I swallow around something tight in my chest.

“Well,” I say gently, “you’re doing an excellent job.”

He beams again.

We spend an hour like this, me carving a small wooden moon while he “supervises.” He hums tunelessly, tells me about a bug he saw. Asks if wood has birthdays.

When he gets bored, he crawls into my lap without asking permission and presses his cheek against my chest.

“You smell like trees,” he informs me.

“Thank you?” I laugh.

“I like it,” he adds quickly, as if worried I might take offense.

I wrap my arms around him and breathe him in. Shampoo and sunshine and something purely him.

It’s hard to feel disposable with a child wrapped around you like this.

But the fear still creeps in when I let him go and he runs ahead of me toward the house, and I think…

What if I lose this?

I shake it off. I have to, otherwise it will swallow me whole.

We make grilled cheese for lunch. Evan insists on flipping his own sandwich and nearly launches it into orbit.

“You’re so dramatic,” I tell him.

“You like me,” he shoots back.

He’s not wrong.

When he’s finally down for quiet time, I take my sketchbook out to the back porch, ideas brimming.