The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 449

Mia

I pull out another photo. This one is recent. Three weeks ago.

My fingers catch on the glossy edge and for a second it sticks to the one beneath it, that static cling photos get when they've been stacked too long in a box. I have to peel them apart carefully.

Madison in her school play. She's dressed as a tree.

The costume is homemade—I can see the places where I rushed, where the hot glue strings show white against the brown poster board we wrapped around her middle for the trunk. Brown tights on her legs, the kind that bag a little at the knees because I bought them a size too big so she could wear them again.

In the photo she's on stage, caught mid-performance under those harsh auditorium lights that wash out everyone's faces. She's standing perfectly still.

She's not moving. Just being trees.

"She took it very seriously," I say.

My voice sounds strange in my own ears. Distant. Like I'm hearing myself speak from the other end of a tunnel.

"Practiced standing still for days. Said trees don't move so she couldn't move either."

Kyle takes the photo from my hand.

His thumb traces the edge of Madison's green-paper branches in the photo.

A yawn catches me. Comes up from somewhere deep in my chest, forcing my jaw open so wide something clicks near my ear.

"Sorry," I say when it passes, when I can close my mouth again. My eyes are watering from it.

"Don't apologize."

I reach for another photo.

My hand moves through the air and I watch it like it belongs to someone else. Miss the edge. Close on nothing.

I blink. Try again.

This time I catch it. The edges are slightly bent, someone—probably Alexander—grabbed it wrong once.

This one shows all three children in the kitchen. Our kitchen. I can see the edge of the refrigerator in the frame, covered in their artwork held up with magnets. Ethan has flour on his face, a coating, like someone took a powder puff to him. Alexander has chocolate on his shirt, a brown handprint. Madison has both. Flour and chocolate.

They're standing in front of the counter and the disaster behind them is magnificent. Eggshells. Spilled sugar.

"That was last Sunday," I say."They wanted to make me breakfast. Made brownies instead because—"

Another yawn.

"Because Ethan said breakfast food is too complicated."

"Are brownies not complicated?" Kyle asks.

"Apparently not. They'd watched a YouTube video."

I blink. Once. Twice.

"The brownies were terrible. Completely inedible. But they were so proud."

The photo is still in my hands but I can't remember what I'm supposed to do with it. I stare at the three chocolate-and-flour-covered faces and they blur slightly. Come back into focus. Blur again.

Kyle is watching me.

"You're exhausted," he says.

Another yawn cuts me off. This one so wide my eyes water, tears pooling at the corners and threatening to spill over.

"Okay," I admit when I can speak again. "Maybe a little tired."

Kyle sets down the photo. The soft click of it against the coffee table. Then he shifts on the couch, the leather creaking slightly under his weight. Not moving away. Moving toward.

"Lie down."

"Lie down," Kyle says again.

I lie down.

The couch cushions accept my weight like an old friend.

The fabric is rough against my cheek. That textured upholstery that was supposed to be stain-resistant. It smells like laundry detergent—the lavender kind I buy in bulk from Costco. And underneath that, something earthier. Dog. Gas sleeps on this couch. Has claimed this armrest as her favorite napping spot. There are probably dog hairs embedded in the weave. I should vacuum it.

The thought drifts away before I can hold onto it.

I pull my feet up. Curl on my side.

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