“Hello, my little monsters.” Jo snatched up DJ, making gobbling noises into his neck as he squirmed with delight.

“You look terrible,” Amy said to her.

“Gee, thanks.”

“It’s the shock,” Amy said sympathetically. “You’ll get over it.”

“What?”

“You’ve had the same hairstyle since high school,” our little sister said. “Losing your hair is like losing your identity. It’s like you’re in mourning for your childhood.”

“Sometimes you’re so perceptive, it’s terrifying.”

“I’m just saying, you’d feel better with a good haircut,” Amy said.

“I want haircut,” Daisy said.

“No haircuts,” I said automatically. What was that smell?

“But I want—”

“No haircuts now,” Amy said. “We’re doing pretty fingernails now.”

Ah. Nail polish, that was it. Daisy waggled her fingers in the air. “Pretty.”

“So pretty, sweeties,” I said. DJ pulled his thumb from his mouth. Both my babies had rainbow manicures. I eyed the bottles—eggplant, scarlet, navy in some brand I’d never heard of—spilling from Amy’s bag. “Is that . . .”

“Nontoxic,” Jo said, looking up from her phone. “And vegan. I Googled it.”

“Good job,” I said.

“Which one of us?” Amy asked.

So competitive. “All of you,” I said. Making peace. I started cleaning, tissues, cotton balls, purple smears on the kitchen table.

Jo made a strangled noise. I looked up. She was staring at her phone, her face red and stunned.

“What? What is it?” Amy crowded closer to peer over her shoulder. “Oh, him. The arm-porn guy.”

“Who?” I asked. “Where?”

“Eric.” Jo’s voice shook. “He commented on my blog.”

“I recognized his avatar,” Amy said. “That’s the same photo, right? With the tats.”

“Well, that’s good,” I said cautiously. Anything that took her attention off our father had to be positive. “Is that good?”

Jo’s eyes welled with tears. “He posted his mother’s recipe for pfeffernüsse.”

“Bastard,” Amy said. “What’s pfeffernüsse?”

“Bat turd,” DJ said.

Amy shot me a guilty grin. “Oops.”

Jo snorted.

I smothered a laugh. “Nothing wrong with his hearing. Come on, my babies.”

I settled the twins with a video in the family room and returned to my sisters in the kitchen.

“She wrote about us in her blog,” Amy said, looking up from Jo’s phone. “Like, a story from when we were younger. It’s so weird.”

Jo sniffed. “But do you like it?”

“Yeah, it’s cool. It’s good.” She scrolled, still reading. “Was I really such a spoiled brat?”

“You’re not a brat,” I said.

Jo grinned. “Just spoiled.”

Amy stuck out her tongue. “You always did have to play the hero.”

“Hey, it’s my story,” Jo said. “When you write the story, you can be the hero.”

“You just wait,” Amy said.

“So.” I opened the fridge and pulled out a package of chicken thighs. “Eric’s reading your blog now.”

“I sent him a link. I never expected . . .” Jo got up from the table and started assembling ingredients for a salad. “I guess I thought . . . I hoped he would text me.”