Oh God. “No.” I didn’t know. My parents were both self-employed, but surely Dad had veteran’s benefits or something. “I haven’t asked.”

“You know, if your folks need anything . . . Anything at all,” Trey said.

“Oh no, they’re fine,” I said. Although I wasn’t really sure. “It’s just Mom always sees her biggest sales around the holidays, and since she can’t go to the farmers’ market . . .” I took another sip of wine, for courage. “I thought I could do it. Just for one weekend.”

“You? Why not your father?”

Because he doesn’t do a damn lick around the farm. But I couldn’t say that. I was his daughter. Growing up in a minister’s family, in a military family, you learned not to air your dirty laundry. “He sees clients on Saturday.” I forced a smile. “Anyway, do you really see my dad selling cheese at a stall?”

“Not really,” John admitted. “But it’s not your job.”

“Somebody has to do it.” And there was only me. Doing it all. I swallowed again. “I’m the only one here.”

John sighed. “Honey, I appreciate you wanting to help your parents. But your dad’s not the only one who has commitments on Saturday.”

“Oh.” I bit my lip. “Of course.”

“You’ve been busting your ass,” Trey said easily. “Take the day off. The dealership can manage without you one more day. Assuming you don’t have to be somewhere else.”

I blinked, confused. Where else would John be?

John’s jaw set. “I guess that’s all settled, then.”

I knew he didn’t want special treatment from the boss. I admired his independence. But Trey was like my brother. “I’ll get dessert,” I said hastily. “Miss Hannah made cookies.” Cookies made everything better.

And I should check on the twins anyway. Ten minutes ago, I’d left them coloring happily at the table. Now they were . . .

Not at the table.

The flour canister I’d used to make dumplings was on the floor, along with the empty sugar bowl. Daisy stooped and then straightened, flinging fistfuls of flour into the air above her head. Flour and sugar were everywhere, a gritty mix dusting the cabinets and counters, caking the floor.

“Daisy! DJ?”

My little boy turned his white face to me. White hair, white clothes, white eyelashes, all of him, white.

A bubble rose from my chest to my brain, making me light-headed with laughter. Or hysterics.

“He a snowman, Mommy,” Daisy chirped. “I make it snow for Kissmas.”

Trey, behind me, started to laugh. John chuckled.

“Who wants to make snow angels?” Trey asked.

The bubble swelled. Burst in a laugh. “Don’t encourage them.”

“Honey, relax.”

Like I was at fault. “John, look at this mess!”

“So? We can clean it up,” he said reasonably.

Irrational tears stung my eyes. “I’ll do it.”

His gaze fixed on my face. “Right,” he said slowly. “Bath time, kids. Up to bed.”

“No!” Daisy said. “Want snow!”

John scooped her up, flour and all. “We’ll make bubbles,” he promised. “Snow bubbles in the tub.”