Page 46 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

He looks down at the toys again, then holds up a small unfinished shape. “Can we make one now?”

“We can try,” I say softly.

Evan beams.

So, we set up at the kitchen table with paper and crayons first, because if Evan wants a dinosaur car, we need a plan.

He draws something that might be a rectangle with spikes and wheels and a face. He labels it “DINOSAR” in large, proud, wobbly letters.

“It’s beautiful,” I tell him sincerely.

He nods. “It’s fast.”

“Obviously.”

Then we dig through my scraps until we find a piece that could plausibly become the body. Evan touches each one like he’s choosing a magical artifact.

“This one,” he decides, pointing to a chunk of pine with an interesting knot.

I grin. “Good eye.”

We sand the pieces together, Evan doing the important parts, which mostly involves rubbing them with sandpaper with extreme seriousness, me doing the parts requiring actual precision so that nobody loses a finger. I teach him how to feel the wood with his fingertips, how to tell when it’s smooth enough.

“It feels… nice,” he says, rubbing it against his cheek.

“Smooth is safe,” I tell him quietly.

Evan looks at me. “Safe is good.”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “Safe is good.”

By the time we’re done, we have something that resembles a car if you squint and believe in it hard enough. Evan is thrilled.

He holds it up as a trophy. “It’s done!”

“We need wheels,” I remind him.

Evan gasps. “Wheels!”

We improvise with buttons and glue, because today is not the day I’m pulling out power tools in Wayne’s kitchen. Evan presses the buttons down with both thumbs, tongue poking out in concentration.

When it finally holds, he rolls it across the table like it’s the greatest invention in human history.

“It’s perfect,” he says.

And the thing is, it kind of is.

Not because it’s polished or flawless. It isn’t. But because we made it together.

My chest feels lighter than it has in a long time.

Afterward, when Evan is playing quietly with his dinosaur car and the rest of the house is calm, my mind drifts back to the school, back to Mrs. Kline’s buff folder lying on the table in the conference room. The highlighted lines. The word “inappropriate” stamped over my life like a bruise.

I still don’t understand how it could have happened.

How such obvious lies became truth in someone else’s mouth.

How quickly people can decide you’re guilty of a crime without proof if it fits a story they’re already willing to believe.