“They look scared.”
***
Meeting them for the first time, I kept glancing at my husband. He crouched to Matthew’s level, offering a dinosaur sticker.
“Is this your favorite?” he asked, and Matthew barely nodded, eyes fixed on William.
William whispered, “He talks for the both of us.”
Then he looked at me, like he was sizing up if I was safe. I knelt, too, and said, “That’s okay. I talk a lot for Joshua.”
My husband laughed, a real, happy sound. “She’s not kidding, bud.”
Matthew cracked a small smile. William pressed closer to his brother.
“He talks for the both of us.”
***
The day they moved in, the house felt nervous and too bright. Joshua knelt by the car and promised, “We’ve got matching pajamas for you.”
That night, the boys turned the bathroom into a swamp, and for the first time in years, laughter filled every room.
For three weeks, we lived on borrowed magic, bedtime stories, pancake dinners, LEGO towers, and two little boys slowly learning to reach for us.
One night, about a week after the twins arrived, I found myself sitting on the edge of their beds in the dark, listening to the slow, even breaths of two boys who still called me “Miss Hanna” instead of Mom.
The house felt nervous and too bright.
The day had ended with William crying over a lost toy and Matthew refusing to eat his dinner.
As I tucked the covers higher under their chins, Matthew’s eyes blinked open, wide and anxious.
“Are you coming back in the morning?” he whispered.
My heart clenched. “Always, sweetheart. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
William rolled over, clutching his stuffed bear. For the first time, he reached out and took my hand.
But then Joshua started slipping away.
“I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
***
First, it was little things. He came home late.
“Tough day at work, Hanna,” he’d say, avoiding my eyes.
He’d eat dinner with us, smile at the boys, but then slip away to his office before dessert. I started cleaning up alone, wiping sticky fingerprints off the fridge and listening to the muffled sound of his phone calls through the door.
When Matthew spilled his juice and William burst into tears, I was the one kneeling on the kitchen floor, whispering, “It’s okay, sweetie. I’ve got you.”
Joshua would be gone, “work emergency,” he’d say, or just disappear behind the blue glow of his laptop.
First, it was little things.
One night, after another tantrum and too many peas under the table, I finally confronted him.
