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I held him close. It amazed me that two kids that had nothing could be as sweet as Tristan and Ivy.
I let him go and stirred the macaroni. When it was done, I strained it and put it in a bowl. I dumped the ingredients in the bowl and handed Ivy a spoon. “Stir, sweetie.”
She mixed it as thoroughly as she could, but in the end I had to help her.
“Ivy, why don’t you get the plates?” I nodded my head at the cabinet that housed them.
“Sure,” she smiled, eager to please me.
She grabbed three plates, hopped off the counter, and scurried over to the card table that served as our only eating surface.
I helped Tristan down and carried the pot over to the table where I loaded our plates with macaroni.
“Wash your hands before you eat,” I warned them.
With heads bowed, they did as I said. I cleaned the pot and washed my hands before joining them at the table.
“It’s good, Row,” Tristan smiled at me with trusting eyes. It broke my heart every time I saw that look in his eyes. He and Ivy trusted me completely…to love them…to protect them…but how could I ever do those things when I wasn’t a whole person? I was shattered…broken…unimportant.
“Thanks, Tristan,” I ruffled his hair, hoping the innocent little boy couldn’t see the darkness inside me.
“You’re the best sister,” he leaned into my touch, like a dog begging to be petted.
“Hardly,” I laughed.
They helped me wash the dishes and then it was time to give Tristan his bath. After a lot of grumbling I finally got him into the warm water. I really wished I’d had time to change my clothes. Giving Tristan a bath in a pencil skirt wasn’t practical. Damn Trenton Wentworth.
I let Tristan splash around for a few minutes before I washed and shampooed his hair.
“Pull the drain plug,” I pointed to the stopper. He pulled it and the water began to whoosh out.
He stood and I helped him out. I wrapped a towel around his small frame, drying his body, and then his hair so it stuck up around his head like a bird’s feathers.
I led him down the hall to the room he shared with Ivy.
Ivy was reclined on her bed, playing with her dolls. “Shower, Ivy.”
“I wanna play,” she whined.
“Ivy. Shower. Now.” I snapped. “I’m tired and I don’t have the energy to argue with you.”
“Fine,” she slipped out of the bed, grabbing pajamas to take with her to the bathroom.
“Hurry back and I’ll read you both a story,” I said in a softer tone. I hated snapping at the kids, knowing they got enough of that from our mom—on the rare occasions she was awake—and step-dad.
“Okay,” I heard her say as the bathroom door closed.
I grabbed the lotion and rubbed it into Tristan’s body. “Which pajamas do you want to wear?”
“The dinosaurs!”
I shook my head. I should’ve known.
I pulled out the pajamas with different colored dinosaurs on them. “Lift your arms,” I instructed.
Once he was in his pajamas, he climbed into his bed.
“Which story do you want tonight? It’s your turn to pick,” I rubbed my eyes.
