We knew there was a storm brewing from the moment my daughter woke up. Crabby isn’t the right word. We’ll call it “off,” just not right. It was a walking on eggshells kind of day.
Who cares if I cling, just a bit, to his babyhood?
I considered his tantrum and I know, as I knew when it was happening, that he just felt helpless.
Last week, I watched my husband become a father.
Maybe I was the only one who cared about Tiny because I feared that if Tiny left, it would take my last baby with it.
His room is dark. Discarded books are piled on the nightstand, his empty cup on top. I whisper that it’s time for our song, and he snuggles into position. I …
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