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“I dropped it by this morning. You were in the shower.” Her words are a pinprick in the balloon of my hope. She prattles on, “I stopped by the grocer with the kids, and we grabbed a chicken. We made chicken bunwiches last night.” That’s what Elise calls a sandwich on a bun. “I boiled the carcass so it’s the good kind of broth. There’s chicken and veggies in there, too. And Mabel insisted on those little star noodles to make it pretty.”

“Thank you, Elise.”

“Anything for my girl, Faye, honey. You know that.” There’s a kind softness to her voice that she gives me often. Too often. I don’t deserve her love after the way I came between her sons. Still, she’s never withheld it from me. Not ever.

I bite back my tears. “Tell my babies I love them. I’m going to take a nap.”

Translation, I’m going to bawl my eyes out some more.

“They love you, too.”

I hang up. And then I sob.

I sob until I think even my heart has run itself dry.

“I want to watch the princess dragon.” Mabel bounces on her knees on the sofa. Duke yaps.

“No jumping on the couch.” I toss the remote to Owen who searches for Shrek, which is what Mabel means when she talks about the princess dragon. A.K.A Donkey’s lady.

Mabel, as she’s prone to do, ignores my request and bounces again. Duke yaps again.

“Mabel, you’re going to be a floor kid if you keep that up,” I warn.

“I’m not jumping!”

“You’re bouncing on my couch. Whether you’re on your knees or your feet makes no difference. I’m not buying a new couch because you think it’s a trampoline.”

Her eyes light up. “Can we get a trampoline?”

“Oh, for freak sakes,” I mumble.

Owen laughs.

I shoot him a glare. He tries to stop, but a snort escapes.

I fight a smile. I love my kids even when I want to pull my hair out.

The opening song for Shrek begins at the same time the doorbell rings. Duke goes into little doggy attack mode as he rockets for the door. Mabel races behind him. “Don’t you open that door Mabel Wilder, until I get there.”

She shrieks and I curse. This time, I get bonus points because it’s in the confines of my mind. But I still do it.

“It’s Uncle Holt!”

I stop dead in my tracks, my eyes snapping wide as I catch my reflection in the hall mirror. I could not look more a mess if I was trying.

My hair is up in a bun that could be cute if it didn’t look like something nested in it, and I’m not wearing a drop of makeup. I ditched the underwire for a workout bra and topped that with a slouchy t-shirt I tend to wear when I scrub my bathrooms down. There may be a tiny hole near the hem…

I’ve paired that with black leggings and thick pink knitted socks that could be called slippers before topping the entire ensemble with a ratty old grey button-down men’s cardigan. I bought it for Tate for an ugly sweater Christmas party we’d attended. I’d sewn pom poms to the chest to resemble Santa’s beard with jingle bells throughout. Thankfully for me, I’d since removed the pom poms and bells. It was still an ugly as heck sweater that also doubled as the comfiest thing known to man.

“You okay, Mom?” Owen frowns at me as he passes on his way to the door, clearly thinking my making Holt stand outside while I study the horror of my reflection, is rude. Mabel jumps up and down, a blob of pink and yellow bouncing on the other side of the frosted glass his only view.

I curse again. This time, it’s audible.

Owen’s brows rise.

Mabel doesn’t hear me. Small mercies.

My son unlocks the door and I brace myself for the dark eyes that land on me. And land on me they do. Hard. Hot.