Page 84 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

By week three,I’ve learned several important things.

One: Oliver Strong can absolutely weaponize his own cuteness when he wants something.

Two: Captain isn't, in any meaningful sense, a trained animal. He’s a blond menace with paws.

And three: living in a billionaire penthouse doesn't, unfortunately, make your emotional problems disappear. It just gives them better lighting.

“Honestly,” I tell Captain as he trots beside me through the living room with one of Oliver’s socks hanging out of his mouth like a trophy, “you’re the only man in this house currently behaving in a way I can understand.” Captain looks at me with bright, happy eyes and keeps going. “See? That’s what I mean. Consistency.”

Oliver, who's kneeling on the rug building some kind of aerodynamic Lego aircraft, looks up. “He stole my sock.”

“Yes, sweetheart, that does tend to happen when you leave your clothes at golden retriever mouth height.”

“I didn’t leave it,” he says, offended. “I dropped it.”

“Ah.” I nod solemnly. “A critical distinction.”

He narrows his eyes at me in a way that's deeply Ethan-coded, which is both funny and mildly unsettling.

This morning has already involved breakfast, a debate over whether blueberries are “too squishy to trust,” a full five minutes of explaining why Captain cannot come into the shower, and one dramatic floor collapse because the blue plane pajamas were in the wash, and apparently that constituted a personal betrayal.

I handled it all magnificently.

By magnificently, I mean nobody cried for more than two minutes, and one of us even maintained dignity throughout.

That one wasn't me.

Still, I’m starting to find a rhythm here.

A strange one, but a rhythm.

The days with Oliver have structure in the way children always secretly need, even when they act like tiny union reps negotiating against basic hygiene. Breakfast, getting dressed, a little play, a walk if the weather behaves, lunch, quiet time, stories, snacks. Small rituals that build trust. Predictability with room for detours.

And the detours, it turns out, are my favorite part.

Right now, Oliver is halfway through explaining to me why his Lego plane definitely needs "missiles but only pretend ones," while I sit at the coffee table sorting puzzle pieces and failing spectacularly to stop thinking about Ethan.

He left for work early again this morning, all crisp shirt and quiet focus. I only saw him for about thirty seconds in the kitchen while trying very hard not to remember the almost kiss from the other night, which I just can’t shake off, however hard I try.

“Addy?”

I blink and look up. “Hm?”

Oliver points at the wing I’m supposed to be attaching. “You’re not helping. You’re just holding it.”

“That,” I tell him, “is because I’m bringing emotional support to the engineering process.”

He considers this. “That’s not a real job.”

“It absolutely is. Ask any woman.”

He accepts this instantly, which honestly bodes well for his future.

Captain drops onto the rug with a dramatic groan and sprawls out across my feet like a furry paperweight.

I look down at him. “You too? Great. Love being physically trapped by dependents before noon.”

His tail thumps once.