Page 45 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

“Secrets,” I say.

Evan’s eyes go wide. “Secrets?”

“Yep,” I whisper dramatically. “Very serious secrets.”

He drops flat on his stomach and stretches his arms under the bed until his fingers curl over the edge of the box. He drags it out with a grunt, sits up, and then looks at me, waiting for permission.

“Go ahead.”

He flips the lid open and gasps.

Inside are little wooden animals, unfinished pieces, sanded shapes, and smooth, sensory toys with little moving parts. Some are painted. Some are raw, waiting to come to life.

Evan picks one up, an elephant with a spinning wheel in its belly, and turns it over in his little hands the way he did with the first toy I gave him.

“You made all these?” he half-whispers.

I nod, suddenly self-conscious. “Yeah. Not all at once.”

Evan looks at me like I’m the coolest person he’s ever met.

“You should sell them,” he says matter-of-factly.

I blink. “Sell them?”

“Yeah,” Evan says. “So other kids can have them too.”

My throat tightens unexpectedly—he’s just named the one thing I’ve dreamed of for years.

I’ve wanted to sell them, to make something real out of my passion, to build a business out of scraps and love and sanded edges. I’ve wanted to be the person who makes comfort for kids who need it.

But life got in the way.

Max got in the way.

He’d called it “a little hobby” in that tone of his that sounded supportive if you didn’t listen too closely. He’d encouraged me to take the teaching assistant job because it was “stable” and “better” and “what someone with your degree should do.” He’d said the toys were cute but not practical, and I’d believed him because I was tired and I wanted to be wanted.

Now, standing in this room with Evan’s wide eyes on me, it hits me like a punch that I didn’t stop because I didn’t want it.

I stopped because I let someone convince me it wasn’t worth wanting.

I force a smile. “Maybe someday.”

Evan’s brows knit. “Why not now?”

I open my mouth.

No answer comes.

How do you explain to a five-year-old that sometimes you don’t go after the thing you love because the people around you teach you to shrink? How do you explain fear?

Instead, I say, “I just haven’t found the right place to work. Or the right time.”

Evan considers that. Then he nods once, decisive.

“This is the right place,” he declares.

My chest aches.