Just in time.

A door creaked down the hall.

John raised his weight on his elbows, pressing warm lips to my forehead. “Get some rest.”

“Can’t.” Little feet running in the hall. “That’s Daisy.” A thump. “And DJ.”

“I’ll get up with them.”

John’s idea of getting up with the twins was plopping them in front of the TV while he scrolled on his phone. Well. Watching cartoons had never stunted his brain development, he said.

“I’ll do it.” I tossed back the covers. “I won’t go back to sleep anyway.”

I stooped for my nightgown, self-conscious even after sex. My boobs were okay, even after all those months of breastfeeding. But there was a little pudge above my so-called bikini scar that guaranteed I’d never wear a bikini again. And my butt . . . I straightened hastily, pulling my nightgown over my head.

John lay naked in our bed, on full display. He’d developed a bit of a dad bod in the last three years—my cooking—but the extra weight looked good on him.

“You know, you don’t have to do everything yourself,” he said unexpectedly.

“I don’t have to,” I said. “I want to.”

He worked so hard. He deserved a day off. He had told me how it was for him growing up, how their house was always dirty and the fridge empty sometimes. How, when his momma slept in after working the night shift, he used to go to the neighbors’ to borrow eggs so he could fix his brother breakfast before they went to school.

“You want sausage or bacon this morning?” I asked.

“I thought you had to make pie.”

“Just the fillings,” I said. “I have plenty of time to cook you breakfast.”

“Then . . . Bacon would be great.” John smiled. “Thanks, honey.”

Plenty of time, I told myself as I cleaned up after breakfast and mixed pie filling. Time to make icing, to wipe down the kitchen counter and the twins. Time to grab a shower while they napped. Time to take them potty and change their clothes.

The twins slept late. But we were still only a little behind schedule, I thought as I hunted for Daisy’s shoes. “DJ? Daisy, where’s your brother?”

I found him standing behind the sofa, grunting in concentration. Ah. The pediatrician said little boys trained later than girls. Nothing to worry about.

“Everybody poops!” Daisy sang as I led her brother back to the bathroom.

I stripped DJ of his stinky diaper, conscious of time, ticking. Of my mother, waiting. How had she managed with four of us?

John, after one look at my face, offered to get Daisy ready.

“That’s okay,” I said cheerfully, kneeling on the tile floor, trying to avoid smearing poop on my sweater. “We’ll be done in a minute.”

Ten minutes. Fifteen. We were definitely going to be late.

Daisy came running into the bathroom. “Look, Mommy! I haz shoes. Daddy put on my shoes!”

John had, indeed, put on her shoes. And mismatched socks, I saw, but his effort warmed my heart.