Children are strange miracles.
They walk into ruins and ask where the dessert is.
Within twenty minutes, my quadruplets had transformed the war museum atmosphere of the estate into something almost alive.
Noah discovered the grand staircase and immediately asked whether sliding down the banister was a court-martial offense.
Ethan counted the portraits of uniformed Reynolds men and asked why none of the women had swords.
Sophia found the library and nearly forgot the rest of us existed.
Olivia sat at the kitchen island beside Margaret, decorating cookies with more frosting than architecture should allow.
I stood in the doorway, watching.
Margaret had removed her pearls. Her elegant silver hair had loosened at the temples. Flour dusted one sleeve of her emerald dress. She looked younger, and older, and devastated all at once.
“This one is for you,” Olivia said, pushing a crooked star toward her.
Margaret accepted it with reverence.
