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Zion stood at the kitchen entrance looking at me.

My eight-year-old shook his head.

Actually shook his damn head at me.

“Don’t do that,” I warned.

“I didn’t say nothing.”

“Your face did.”

He tried not to smile.

Behind him, Amari appeared with one sock on and one sock off, bonnet halfway hanging off her head.

“Is breakfast done?”

“Does it look done?”

She looked at the counter.

Then at the stove.

Then at the burnt bacon.

“I don’t know.”

“Exactly. Go clean up my living room. Both of y’all. Y’all been awake two hours and it already look like somebody robbed us.”

“Michael did it,” Zion immediately said.

“I did not!”

Michael came running from somewhere behind them with no shirt on, pajama pants twisted around his little waist and one of his toy trucks in his hand.

I looked at all three of them.

“Go.”

“But—”

“Go.”

They scattered.

I laughed under my breath as I turned the burner down.

This was my life.

I loved it.

They drove me fucking crazy, but I loved it.

A little sound came from the baby seat beside the kitchen table, and I looked over.

Serenity’s face was starting to scrunch.

“No, ma’am.”