Violet
“Doom.”
“No.”
“You don't even know what I was going to say.”
“Your ass is looking at that box.”
I stared at my husband.
Then at the small box sitting on the kitchen counter.
It contained towels.
Towels.
Not bricks.
Not weights.
Towels.
“I can carry that.”
“No.”
“I'm twenty-nine weeks pregnant, not helpless.”
“Triplets.”
“I know how many babies I'm carrying.”
“Then sit your ass down.”
I looked around our brand-new kitchen.
There were at least fifteen people moving through the house.
Brothers carrying furniture.
Women unpacking boxes.
My father and Jack arguing about where something belonged.
Sophia organizing baby supplies.
Valerie putting dishes away.
And me?
I wasn't allowed to touch towels.
“This is my house. I should be allowed to help move into it.”
D
