Laura
I knew Stephen hadn’t slept much the second I walked into the kitchen.
He was sitting at the island in a T-shirt and sweatpants, staring at a cup of coffee that looked untouched. His hair was a mess, his eyes were red, and Austin sat on his lap chewing furiously on a silicone teething toy.
My father stood at the stove making pancakes while Evan sat at the table demanding something called a “big pancake,” although none of us had figured out what qualified as big in the mind of a two-year-old.
For a house that had felt painfully quiet when Stephen and I came home from Samuel’s funeral yesterday, it certainly wasn’t quiet now.
“Bigger,” Evan ordered.
Dad glanced over his shoulder. “That pancake is already the size of your head.”
“Bigger!”
“You are not eating a pancake bigger tha
