Miranda
The house remained suspiciously comfortable.
I didn’t trust that.
I didn’t trust the clean blankets folded across the back of the couch. I didn’t trust the stocked kitchen. I didn’t trust the fact that someone had apparently looked at a list of names and ages and decided my children deserved toys.
Mostly, I didn’t trust how badly I wanted to.
Jake spent dinner clutching the blue truck.
Not beside him.
Not nearby.
Actually holding it.
Every attempt to convince him to set it down ended with him pulling it closer to his chest as though someone might snatch it away if he looked in the other direction.
By the third time he’d nearly dropped his spoon because he was trying to eat one-handed, I finally sighed.
“The truck isn’t going anywhere.”
Jake immediately looked up.
“How
