Chapter 66

Chapter 66
Raleigh

By the time April settles in for real, I’ve stopped pretending I’m ever going to be the kind of woman who serves breakfast with perfect hair and a sunbeam over one shoulder while all four of my children smile on cue like they’ve been hired for a commercial.
That woman doesn’t live here. Here, one baby’s fussing because his diaper’s wet, the other one’s yelling because his sister dared to fall asleep before he did, Maddison’s shouting from upstairs that she can’t find the leggings with stars on them, and Maddox’s in the kitchen informing me with great seriousness that waffles taste different if I cut them into triangles instead of squares.
The old version of me would’ve tried to win every inch of that morning.
I would’ve found the leggings, made the triangles, folded the laundry before breakfast, answered the school email asking for volunteer sign-ups, and probably apologized to somebody for the house not smelling like lemon polish while I was at it.
Now I just hand Maddox the butter knife, tell him to make his own damn triangles with supervision, and call back up the stairs that Maddison can wear the plain leggings because nobody at preschool’s getting graded on sparkle density. Progress.
One of the babies starts crying harder. The other follows because apparently they’re unionized. I lift one from the swing and keep moving with the other, noise in the background because sometimes one person can only solve one problem at a time and that’s not a moral failure. That’s just math.
The kitchen looks like a storm made out of bottles and cereal. There are clean dishes in the rack that still need to be put away, a stack of school forms on the counter, and two tiny socks under the table that belong to neither of the children currently wearing shoes. Somewhere in the middle of all that, my phone buzzes with an email reminder about the spring fundraiser at the twins’ preschool.
They still need parent volunteers for setup. I read it twice while bouncing the baby on my shoulder, then I delete it.
Not because I don’t care, because I do. I care enough about the things that actually keep this house running that I’m done treating my own time, energy, and sleep like they’re public property.
Maddison comes down in one plain legging and one pajama short because she gave up halfway through dressing herself and decided commitment’s for cowards. Her hair sticks out on one side. Maddox’s shirt is inside out.
“You know what?” I tell both of them, “You look amazing.”
Maddison narrows her eyes. “Really?”
“Absolutely. People are gonna lose their minds.”
That satisfies her enough to keep moving. Maddox holds up his plate with triangle waffles and says, “See? Better.”
“I never doubted you.”
By nine, Lincoln’s gone to catch a short station meeting before a training block, the older twins are dropped off, and the babies are finally asleep at the same time. The silence that settles over the house feels holy enough to kneel in.
The old version of me would’ve cleaned. Today I look at the sink full of bottles, the unfolded laundry on the couch, the blanket fort remains in the den, and the trail of tiny plastic animals marching toward the hallway, then I walk right past every single thing and climb into bed.
I don’t even feel guilty until I wake up forty minutes later, and that guilt lasts only about two breaths before I remember I’m a woman with twin newborns, two older kids, a firefighter husband, and a calendar that looks like it got mauled by a pack of wolves.
Anybody expecting perfection can choke on it. When I come back downstairs, Ashlynn’s standing in my kitchen with a grocery sack in one hand and my front door still open behind her.
I blink at her. “You’ve got a key.”
“I also have arms, and they were full.”
Fair. She sets the bag down and takes in the room without judgment, which is one of the reasons I love her so much it gets embarrassing.
“Did you nap?” she asks.
“I did.”
“Good.”
That’s it. No lecture about getting ahead while the babies sleep. No cheerful suggestion that I’ll feel better if I tackle a quick load of towels. Just good.
I lean against the counter and watch while she pulls out soup containers, cut fruit, a loaf of bread, and two coffees she clearly grabbed on the way over.
“I could kiss you.”
“I’d rather you drink that while it’s still hot.”
I take the coffee and groan after the first sip. “You’re better than everybody.”
“I know.”
We move around each other easily while she holds one baby so I can rinse bottles. Then I hold the other while she wipes the counter because apparently she’s sneaky like that. The third one is finally asleep in the bassinet by the couch, which means neither of us is willing to breathe too hard and ruin it. We talk about nothing important and everything important at the same time. Maddison’s latest fixation with purple glitter. Maddox’s insistence that Lincoln can fix literally anything because he’s strong and owns a wrench. Nora teaching Lily how to cheat at hide-and-seek. Lydia, Miles, and Ollie finally settling into something Boston and Aspen can survive without hallucinating.
Then she glances toward the laundry pile and says, “You don’t have to win your house.”
That lands harder than it should. I look down at the bottle in my hand. “I know.”
“You know in your head,” she says gently. “That’s not always the same as knowing in your body.”
She’s right, which is rude. I cap the bottle and set it in the rack. “I think I’m finally starting to get there.”
“What changed?”
I think about it for a second. Maybe it’s the twins. Maybe it’s watching what happens when life gets too full for performance, and there’s no room left for vanity projects disguised as standards. Maybe it’s the simple fact that I don’t want my daughter growing up thinking a woman’s worth can be measured by whether her baseboards are clean during the newborn phase.
“I got tired,” I say finally. “And then I got honest.”
Ashlynn smiles like that answer matters. “Good.”
Later that afternoon, I pick up the older twins with both babies in the back seat and a granola bar clenched between my teeth, because motherhood is apparently an endurance sport with no prize money. Maddison climbs in, talking fast about paint. Maddox wants to know if Daddy’s home yet. Both babies start fussing before I hit the first red light.
A month ago that would’ve felt like failure.
Today I just turn the music up a little, pass back the snack bag, and tell everybody to ride it out because the house is seven minutes away and nobody’s dying.
At home, the babies end up in bouncers in the kitchen while Maddison colors at the table and Maddox builds a block tower tall enough to violate local code. I order pizza instead of cooking. I leave the laundry folded in baskets because wearing clothes from a basket still counts as wearing clothes. I let Maddison wear a tutu over her pajamas after bath because it makes her feel fancy and I don’t currently have the energy to oppose joy.
When Lincoln gets home, he stops in the doorway and just looks.
I brace automatically, because some part of me still expects to be graded even by the people who love me most, which says more about old wounds than present reality.
Then he takes in the takeout boxes, the baskets on the couch, both babies in fresh sleepers, Maddison twirling in pink tulle, Maddox roaring at his tower, and me with wet hair, no bra, and a baby burp cloth over one shoulder. His mouth curves.
“This is hot,” he says.
I bark out a laugh. “Shut up.”
“No, seriously.” He drops his keys, comes over, and kisses me hard enough to steal the next thought out of my head. “This looks like survival by a very sexy woman.”
“Wow. Romance.”
“I’m from the fire department. We work with what we’ve got.”
The kids start yelling for him all at once, because of course they do, and he goes willingly. One twin in each arm. Maddison hanging off his side. Maddox dragging him toward the block tower like the fate of civilization depends on paternal admiration.
I stand there for a second and let myself take the picture in.
This.
Not the polished version, or the imaginary woman with coordinated lunchboxes and lipstick at eight in the morning.
This one. The one with pizza grease on the counter and a husband who thinks she’s beautiful with spit up on her shirt. The one with kids who are loud and healthy and secure enough to demand everything because they trust it’s safe to do so. The one who finally understands that dropping what doesn’t matter isn’t giving up. It’s clearing room for what does.
After the kids are asleep and both babies have finally surrendered for a stretch longer than twelve insulting minutes, Lincoln finds me in the kitchen loading the dishwasher.
He comes up behind me and slides both hands over my hips.
“You should leave that,” he murmurs.
“I’m almost done.”
“You say that like I don’t know you’ll end up reorganizing the entire cabinet if I let you keep going.”
“I feel judged.”
“You feel known.”
That earns him a snort. He turns me in his arms and studies my face. “You okay?”
There’s that question again. The one I used to answer with, whatever version of fine would get people off my back the fastest.
Tonight I tell the truth. “Actually, yeah.” I rest my hands on his chest. “I think I’m getting better at this part.”
“What part?”
“Letting some things be ugly so the important things can stay good.”
His eyes soften in that way that always makes me want to climb right inside his ribcage and live there.
“Baby,” he says quietly, “none of this looks ugly to me.”
It shouldn’t hit as hard as it does, but it still does.
Maybe because he means it. Maybe because I’m finally starting to believe him.
I lean into him and let the dishwasher hum behind us, let the toys stay where they are till morning, let the clean towels wait in the basket, let the cereal dust stay on the floor one more night. I’m not failing.
I’m finally learning what can be dropped without anything worth loving falling with it.