The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 446

Mia's POV

"Alexander." My voice is sharper now. "What have I told you about watching grown-up shows?"

"I don't watch grown-up shows!"

"Then where did you learn about ex-boyfriends and current boyfriends and awkward social dynamics?"

"I don't know! From existing! From having ears! From Mrs. Rodriguez and also from the elevator—"

"Alexander!" I'm trying not to smile but also genuinely alarmed. "You're five. You shouldn't know these things."

"Well I do know them! And I'm just trying to help you not be awkward!"

"Okay!" I stand up. "That's enought. And you..." I point at him. "Less eavesdropping. Less elevator gossip. Less... less learning about adult relationships from our seventy-year-old neighbor."

"She's sixty-eight," he mumbles.

"Alexander."

"Okay, okay. Sorry." But he doesn't look sorry. He looks pleased with himself for knowing things, for being observant, for understanding the world in ways that make me both proud and deeply concerned about what else he's picking up.

From his bed, Ethan says quietly, "But he's right though."

"About what?"

"About Uncle Thomas and Daddy not being in the same space. It would be weird. Even I can tell that and I'm not good at social dynamics."

"You're fine at social dynamics," I mutter.

"I'm really not. But even I can see that Uncle Thomas looks at you the way Daddy looks at you and that means they probably shouldn't be in the same room or there might be..." He pauses, searching for the word. "...tension."

"Where did you learn the word tension?"

"School. Mrs. Martinez used it when Jake and Connor both wanted to sit next to Emma at lunch and she said 'boys, there's too much tension here, someone needs to move.'"

"That's... that's completely different."

"Is it?" Ethan tilts his head. "It seems analogous. Multiple males competing for the attention of a single female. Same dynamic, different age group."

"Oh my god." I press my hands to my face. "What is happening? How did we get here??"

"You asked," Alexander points out helpfully.

"I know I asked! I'm regretting asking!"

Madison giggles from the doorway, a soft sound that breaks the tension, and suddenly I'm laughing too because this is my life now—five-year-olds analyzing my romantic life using examples from soap operas filtered through Mrs. Rodriguez and playground dynamics explained with scientific terminology.

"Okay," I say, when I can breathe again. "Okay. New rule. No more relationship advice from Mrs. Rodriguez. No more eavesdropping on phone calls. No more romantic analysis of any kind. You're five. All of you. You should be thinking about toys and snacks and whether grass is called grass because it's green or if green is called green because of grass."

"That's a good question actually," Ethan says, perking up. "Etymology is fascinating and—"

"BED," I say firmly. "Right now. Everyone. Bed."

Alexander flops back down dramatically. "But we didn't finish talking about the house!"

"We'll talk about it tomorrow. When you're less focused on my dating life."

"Okay but just so you know," he says, pulling his covers up, "I think you should pick Daddy. For the house. And also for life. Because genetics."

"Genetics?"

"Yeah. Me and Ethan came from you and Daddy's genetics. So if you pick someone else to be your boyfriend, any new babies would have different genetics and then they wouldn't be our full siblings and Mrs. Rodriguez says half-siblings always fight more than full siblings and—"

"ALEXANDER. BED. NOW. SLEEP."

He grins at me—that mischievous smile that's pure trouble—and closes his eyes with exaggerated obedience.

I turn off their light, my heart still hammering with a mixture of exasperation and love and complete bewilderment at how children can be so innocent and so knowing at the same time.

"Goodnight," I say firmly. "Sleep. No more talking. No more relationship analysis. Just sleep."

"Goodnight Mama," they chorus, and I can hear the smile in Alexander's voice even though his eyes are closed.

I check on Madison last, tucking her into her bed in her own room. "Ready for sleep?"

"Mama?" she whispers. "I like Uncle Thomas. But I want Daddy in our house too."

"I know, baby."

"Is that wrong?"

"No. It's not wrong. You can love more than one person. That's not wrong."

"But Alexander says—"

"Alexander says a lot of things. Don't worry about it. Just dream about window seats and big rooms and all the space you'll have."

She smiles, her eyes already closing. "Okay. Love you, Mama."

"Love you too."

I stand in the hallway afterward, leaning against the wall.

These children are going to be the death of me.

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