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Both girls enjoyed photography. Their photos lined our walls alongside their dad’s. Pictures of the kids. Pictures of us as a family. Pictures of Ares’ grandparents who loved him back to himself in the short time they had him. Pictures of Lucky and Minty. My parents. His father. Viola. So many pictures of Viola, and far too many pictures of me.
An embarrassing number.
I loved the photos of my girls together. Brayleigh so fair with her cloud of blond curls, big blue eyes, and generous mouth perpetually curved in a smile. Sia, her skin the same warm, olive tone as her father, her features so fine, so delicate, so arrestingly beautiful as if they’d been drawn on with indelible ink.
My girls.
“Where’s the devil-child?” I murmured suspiciously.
Sia held her hands out to appease me. “Mama, it’s going to be okay.”
Ares lay back on the bed beside me and chuckled. “Give your mother her syrup with pancakes before you tell her anything else.”
“What did he do?” I swung my gaze to Ares. “Should I be alarmed? Is he hurt?”
He looked to the ceiling, thinking. “Yes, to the first, no, to the second.”
“I need my coffee first,” I grumbled.
“Yes. You do,” Ares agreed.
Brayleigh set the tray Ares brought up on my lap. Pancakes drowning in syrup, just the way I liked them.
“Mm, thank you.”
The room was quiet as they held their collective breath.
Brayleigh couldn’t hold it in any longer. “He wants to compete in the pet grooming show. He was practicing, Mama. It’s a good thing. Shows initiative.”
“No,” I breathed.
Ares shook with laughter beside me.
“It’s not that bad,” Sia said weakly.
“Theo?” I called softly, knowing that loveable imp was hiding close enough to hear me.
Coming as a surprise seven months after Brayleigh and I moved in with Ares, Theo clocked in at almost exactly two years younger than Sia.
He was a delightful baby until the age of two. But he didn’t stop at the terrible twos. He went on to enjoy the thrilling threes, fuck-my-life fours, fiery fives, sadistic sixes, and so on until we ran out of adjectives and accepted our lot in life as the clean up crew for our now nine-year-old human hurricane.
And the apple of my eye.
“Yes?” he questioned from behind the doorframe as if he hadn’t been listening to every word.
“Come here, pestilence.”
He entered with his hands held up much like his sister, Sia. “It’s not that bad.”
I struggled to keep my face stern. “Which one?”
He looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“Which dog did you make over?”
Both girls turned their backs, their heads coming together as they tittered and laughed.
Theo’s eyes danced.
