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“Grandma did.”

Mom takes a sip of wine. “I got bored.”

Emma walks toward me. The girls continue testing every padded edge they can reach. “You realize this started with the coffee table, right?”

“It was glass.” I take the shipping invoice from her and check the quantity because thirty-six still makes no sense.

Emma folds her arms as I straighten, although the twitch at the corner of her mouth ruins whatever expression she’s aiming for. “You hear yourself, right?”

Behind her, Babs whispers loudly to her sister, “Daddy’s scared Emma will bump.”

Biddy looks toward Emma’s stomach. “Would the babies get a bump too?”

The question wipes the laughter from Emma’s face before she crouches beside them.

“No, sweetheart.” She places Biddy’s hand over her stomach. “The babies are very safe in here.”

Babs comes closer as well. “Even if you fall?”

“Daddy’s trying very hard to make sure I don’t.”

Both girls look at me.

Babs considers this with the seriousness only a six-year-old can bring to furniture. “Can we put bumpers on Sprout?”

Biddy nods so hard her ponytail bounces. “He’s very hard.”

Mom starts laughing, and Emma covers her mouth.

Sprout looks up from the rubber piece he’s destroying.

“I think he’d eat them,” Emma says.

“He eats everything,” Biddy agrees.

Babs pats his head. “Because he’s hungry.”

“He ate your sandwich yesterday,” I remind her.

She shrugs. “He was hungry then too.”

Emma comes over with Sprout attacking another piece of rubber behind her. “You know I can manage furniture.”

“I know.” I catch one end of my tie when she starts straightening it, although she ignores me and fixes it anyway.

“You’re going to keep doing this.”

I cover her hand with mine and lower my head toward her. “You’re carrying two children I already care about more than is reasonable, and apparently my response is to declare war on household objects.”

Her fingers stop against my tie before she slides them around the back of my neck and kisses me.

Sprout steals another corner protector behind her, and this time I decide I have bigger problems than the dog.

Emma finds me in the kitchen shortly after three the following morning with a pregnancy book open beside my coffee.

Apparently admitting I’m declaring war on household objects didn’t make me any less interested in finding new threats.

She stops in the doorway wearing one of my shirts and nothing else I can see beneath it. “What are you reading?”