I clenched deep inside. I wasn’t ready for that, either.

DJ was warm and damp against my side. Maybe too warm and damp? I checked. Yep.

I smooched the top of his little blond head. “Let’s change that diaper, sweetie.”

He lay quietly, rubbing the satiny edge of his blanket against his cheek as I took care of business. When I was done, he rewarded me with his slow, sweet smile. His big brown eyes were so much like John’s. I smiled and planted a kiss on the bottom of his foot, eliciting a giggle.

“I pee, too, Mommy,” Daisy said jealously.

I straightened. “Do you need to go potty again, sweetheart?”

“Need diaper,” she insisted.

“Don’t you want to wear your big-girl panties to bed?”

Her lower lip stuck out. “No.”

My baby girl. So precious. So precocious. Ever since her first cry, two minutes ahead of her brother’s, Daisy had taken the lead. Quicker to talk, to walk, to toilet train. The one who was expected to do everything first, to get everything right. Why should she have to put on her big-girl panties simply because she was the oldest? Let her sleep in a diaper for one night.

I changed her out of her pretty flowered panties and dimmed the lights. “Good night, my sweeties.” I bent over their beds to kiss their foreheads. “Sleep tight.”

When I got downstairs, John was in the family room watching SportsCenter. There was a beer in his hand, a bottle of wine and two empty glasses on the coffee table.

He looked up. “Kids down?”

“Yes.” Should I apologize it took so long? “Dinner will be ready in a minute.”

“No rush. Let me know if I can help.”

Come keep me company, I almost said. But he’d already turned his attention back to the TV. Well. My father never helped my mother in the kitchen, either.

I cleared the fast-food boxes from the island, checking to make sure the toys weren’t a choking hazard. I worried too much, John said. And obviously, the twins were fine. Everything was fine.

There was an extra Big Mac wrapper in DJ’s box.

I balled it up and threw it away. John was a grown man, not a child. If he spoiled his appetite, that was his choice.

“Time to eat!” I called ten minutes later.

John strolled in, carrying his beer in one hand, the wine bottle in the other. I could still hear SportsCenter. I dashed into the family room to shut off the TV, came back to find he’d poured my glass of wine.

I sat and smiled at him. “Isn’t this nice.”

“Yeah.” He sipped his beer.

We said grace. I stabbed at my salad. John sawed at his steak.

“I’m sorry it’s overcooked,” I said.

“It’s fine. It’s good. You didn’t need to go to all this trouble for me.”

“Maybe you’re not hungry,” I said.

He looked sheepish. “I picked up a burger earlier when I was out with the kids.”