During morning drop-off at the childcare center, a different parent tilted closer. “Which specific child belongs to you?”
My spouse faked a chuckle. “Every one of them. Biology acts according to its own rules, I assume.”
Occasionally, I would discover her deep into the night, resting inside the nursery, simply observing their tiny chests rise and fall.
I would drop to my knees by her side. “What thoughts are racing through your mind?”
“Do you suspect your relatives trust my word? Regarding our children?”
“I lack any concern regarding what outsiders assume.”
Several years slipped away in that manner. Sam and Eli figured out how to stroll, next sprint, and eventually scream for frozen treats during the most inconvenient instances. Our residence turned into pure disorder, yet it remained the exact sort of disorder I had pleaded for during every quiet wish.
Regardless, her grin slowly vanished. She grew nervous during relative meetups, stressed whenever my mother asked things, and was more silent whenever the local congregation rumors traveled to our front steps.
Next, following the kids’ third yearly celebration, I found my wife sitting inside their unlit sleeping space. I switched on the corridor bulb.
“Are you alright?”
