Page 111 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

The morning gradually settles into something workable. Addy keeps the conversation largely directed toward Oliver. Oliver has strong opinions about whether Captain would make a good pilot. Captain attempts theft twice and is stopped both times. I answer two emails while drinking coffee and pretend I'm not acutely aware of the woman moving around the kitchen in my peripheral vision.

When Oliver disappears briefly to retrieve a toy plane he feels breakfast requires, Addy sets a plate near me.

“You should eat,” she says.

I glance down. Eggs. Toast. Fruit. Balanced, uncomplicated, exactly the sort of meal I would have instructed someone else to make while failing to make it for myself.

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know,” she says.

I look up.

Her expression is calm, but not detached. There’s a softness in it she probably doesn’t realize she lets show when she’s being sincere.

It does unhelpful things to the atmosphere.

“Thank you,” I say.

“You’re welcome.”

That should be the end of it.

Instead, because apparently my judgment continues to make selective and unfortunate choices around her, I say, “We both know what last night was.”

I study her. “Do we?”

Her gaze flicks toward the hallway Oliver disappeared down, then back to me. “We know it was a bad idea.”

That, at least, is true.

And yet…

I lower my voice. “You’re here because Oliver needs consistency. Because this household works better with you in it. I’m not going to do anything that compromises that.”

“Okay,” she agrees.

I nod once. “Okay.”

It's the most responsible conversation we’ve had in days. It also leaves a distinct sense of dissatisfaction in its wake, which I ignore on principle.

Oliver returns at speed with the plane in question, and the morning moves on.

By the time I’m ready to leave, Addy is kneeling on the living room rug, helping him reconstruct an airport out of sofa cushions, two books, and a complete disregard for scale. Captain has inserted himself into the runway system as a weather event. Addy is explaining why emergency landings generally require less tail wagging.

I stop near the entryway and watch them again.

This is becoming a habit.

Oliver glances up first. “You’re leaving.”

“Yes.”

He accepts that with the stoicism of a child accustomed to adults having somewhere to be, though his hand remains on the wing of the toy jet.

“I’ll be back for dinner,” I say.

“Okay.”