“Bubbows,” DJ said happily.

“Snow! Snow! Snow!” Daisy said, patting her father’s shoulders, leaving little white handprints against the blue cotton.

“Make sure you stay with them,” I warned. “Don’t let DJ play with the faucet.”

“Meg, I know,” John said.

The impatience in his tone tightened my throat. I was only trying to help. How did that make me the bad guy?

I opened the hall closet to get the vacuum. I’d be finding flour in the cracks and corners for weeks. Ants, too, probably, with all that sugar.

“Let me give you a hand,” Trey said.

I blinked hard. “I’ve got it.”

“At least let me clear the table.”

“Trey, I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. Your mom is in the hospital and you’re wound tighter than a clock.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“Hey, it’s okay.” He caught me in a one-armed hug, his body lean and comforting. He gave my shoulders a little shake. “You know, it’s okay to accept help sometimes.”

“Unless your last name is March,” I mumbled into his chest.

I closed my eyes, leaning my head against Trey’s shoulder. He smelled like starch and beer, with a whiff of some expensive cologne. The sound of the children’s laughter floated light as soap bubbles down the stairs. I sighed. “I don’t want to be selfish.”

“You’d rather be overwhelmed?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Miserable?”

I gave a watery chuckle. “Maybe.”

“How about bitchy?”

I opened my eyes. Glared. “I am not . . .” Oh.

Trey grinned. “Gotcha.”

I smiled back reluctantly. “Fine. Just for that, you can load the dishwasher.”

“That’s my girl,” Trey said.

It was nice having his company in the kitchen. And maybe he had a point.

For the next three days, I tried extra hard to be patient and cheerful. To be my mother, baking cupcakes at eleven o’clock at night, rehearsing songs with the twins in the car, collecting pinecones at the farm to make Christmas tree ornaments.

On Thursday, when John came to the twins’ program at school, he sat beside me, his right hand holding my left, making the diamond twinkle in the light. Part of a row of parents and grandparents, side by side.

The kids filed in from the hallway holding hands as the teachers half led, half herded them into a ragged line facing the chairs. Miss Julie turned on the music. Miss Nancy passed out jingle bells. Three-year-old Kaylee Upton’s thumb crept into her mouth as Chris Murphy’s dad squatted in the aisle, holding up his cell phone to record.

My mother would have loved this, I thought with a pang. She would have admired the children’s costumes, complimented my nut-free, gluten-free carrot cupcakes.

In the front row, DJ stood stock-still beside Kaylee, hands thrust into his little pockets. Daisy spotted us and waved. Behind her antler headband, her bangs stuck up in every direction.

“Pretty damn cute,” John murmured.

I squeezed his hand.

“Jingle bells, jingle bells . . .”

I leaned forward with the other mothers, nodding encouragement, mouthing along.