John grabbed DJ, tucking him like a football under his other arm. Our son’s head and feet dangled two feet above the floor. “I’ll put the kids to bed. You can finish dinner.”

I wavered, tempted. But taking care of the twins was my job. My only job, since our babies were born. John had left work twice in the past week to watch the twins while I dealt with Momma. It wasn’t fair to ask him to tackle bedtime, too. “I can do it.” I smiled to show him how much I appreciated his offer. “You’ll just get them all wound up. They’re used to things a certain way.”

His mouth compressed. “No, Meg, you’re used to things a certain way. Your way.”

I stared at him, stricken. That wasn’t it at all. Was it? Couldn’t he see I was trying to be considerate?

“Sorry, honey.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s been a full day.”

Hurt dissolved into guilt. “Then you should relax,” I said in my cheerful mommy voice. “Dinner’s almost done. I’ll be right back down.”

“Whatever you want,” he said.

He set the kids on their feet and kissed them good night. No kiss for me. But as I shepherded the twins toward the stairs, he asked, “Want me to open a bottle of wine?”

I smiled back, relieved. Forgiven. “That would be wonderful.”

Two stories later, I closed the book and smoothed back Daisy’s toothbrush bangs. “Sleepy time, my babies.”

Now that they were toddlers, John had suggested we move the kids into separate bedrooms. I knew how important it was for him to provide our children with their own space. Cheryl, John’s mom, told me that for the first year after her divorce, John and his brother had slept together on a pullout couch in their living room.

But I loved this room, our babies’ room. I’d painted the walls myself a soft green (“best color for a learning environment,” I’d read) and made the white curtains with Momma’s help. Amy, the artistic one, had added murals of the Hundred Acre Wood, sweet, old-fashioned line drawings of Piglet and Pooh based on the original illustrations. Along the opposite wall she’d painted a quote from Christopher Robin in flowing script: “Promise me you’ll always remember: You’re braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.”

I remembered how pleased I was, after years of sharing with Jo, to move into a room of my own. Filled with the dignity of my sixteen years, I’d picked out paint and grown-up curtains, pleased with my new status and closet space. But lying alone in bed at night, I’d listened to Beth and Amy in the other room, their whispers carrying through the wall at the head of my bed, and felt . . . Well. Wistful. Like I was missing out on something.

I wasn’t ready for my babies to grow up and into separate rooms. Not yet. Maybe not for a long time. I’d read all those articles about twins’ special bond. Anyway, we might need that third bedroom. If, say, I got pregnant again . . .