Betsy smiled in spite of herself. “Okay. But just for a little bit.”
Addie scooted toward Walsh, leaving a space of about eight inches for Betsy to squeeze into. Betsy scooped the parade of My Little Ponys onto the floor, then stretched her legs out and pulled her grandmother’s blanket up over herself. When she settled, the girls’ scents filled her senses. Was it possible to get light-headed over the smell of sleeping children? She inhaled. It was sleep, a little sweat, lingering cinnamon from the snickerdoodles she’d given the girls after dinner, and something else she couldn’t quite name.
Addie had been still a couple of minutes, not moving a muscle, just like she said, when Walsh grunted in her sleep and flopped over, one arm flinging against Addie. Addie giggled, then stopped. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Betsy whispered. “Did that hurt?”
“No. She does it all the time,” Addie whispered back.
“Do you and Walsh sleep together at home?” Betsy remembered the girls being in separate bedrooms last summer.
“Sometimes. When Mommy has to work late, Walsh usually comes into my room after the babysitter puts her to bed.”
“You take good care of Walsh, don’t you?”
“I do.”
She couldn’t see Addie’s face, but she could almost hear the smile.
Betsy woke to Ty standing over her next to the bed. “Are you okay in here?” he whispered.
She tried to sit up, but Addie’s arm had pinned her in place. In her sleep Addie had curled up next to Betsy’s side. Walsh lay partially on top of Addie, her plump arm draped across her sister and onto Betsy’s right shoulder. All three of them filled half of the double bed; the other half was empty.
“You’re like a magnet,” Ty whispered, grinning. “Look at them. They can’t get close enough to you.”
In the midst of that tangle of warm skin and sleepy breaths, dreams she’d packed away into a tiny space in her heart flooded back. She lifted Addie’s arm and slithered out from underneath it inch by inch.
“You don’t have to get up,” Ty whispered as Betsy tried to free herself without disturbing the girls’ sleep. “I just got up to go to the bathroom and saw you weren’t in bed.”
“It’s okay. I can’t . . .”
Addie whimpered as Betsy pulled herself free. “Aunt Betsy, please don’t go.”
“It’s okay,” Betsy whispered. “Uncle Ty is going to lie down with you for a few minutes.” She turned to Ty. “Please stay with her.”
She was already out in the hallway when Ty caught up to her. “Wait, where are you going?”
“Addie had a bad dream and needs someone to lie with her. Just please do it for me.”
She closed her bedroom door and leaned against it, relishing the stillness of the air, the empty bed, the familiar, unchildlike scents of her space. She stretched out in bed—her side cool, Ty’s side still warm—and put a hand over her thumping heart.
It’s just two weeks.
Then guilt, like a heavy tide of truth, washed over her, soaking her spirit and her soul. It didn’t tell her anything original. It just confirmed what she already knew: she’d make a terrible mother. Her own mother had been distant and distracted—how could Betsy possibly hope to make a good one?
The truth that had come to her inch by inch over the last two years now blazed with certainty. If Betsy had kids, she’d mess them up in a million small ways, and if God had a hand in it, and she figured He probably did, then He was doing the only natural thing a father would do—protect those kids. Protect them from her. It was the only thing that made sense.
twelve
Ty
Ty’s internal alarm clock buzzed at four thirty as usual, even though he was still in Addie and Walsh’s bed, nudged to the very edge by Addie’s poky backbone. He pushed himself up on his elbow. Walsh was curled up next to her sister, both their faces relaxed in easy slumber.
He was used to sharing a bed, but not like this. Betsy and Ty often lay in bed together, legs and arms entwined, but when the light went out, they pulled apart, no skin touching. It had always been like that—no offense meant or taken, just two people who wanted to sleep free and undisturbed. These two girls knew nothing about that. For hours, they’d either slept on top of him, hung arms over his head, kneed him in the stomach, or dug toes into his legs. They were completely and blissfully unaware.
He crept into his bedroom, brushed his teeth in the dark, and pulled on blue jeans and a clean shirt. He grabbed socks and his belt and tiptoed to the door, the taste of coffee already on his tongue.
“Babe?” Betsy’s whisper floated to him from the bed.
He turned and crept back to the bed. “Sorry. I tried to be quiet.” She shifted and he sat on the edge of the mattress. Her sleepy warmth curled around him, poured into his bones. “You okay?”
“I’m good.” She yawned. “Have you heard anything from the girls yet?”
“Not a peep. I just left their room and they didn’t even move when I got up.”
“You stayed the rest of the night?”
He nodded. “They had me in a vise grip.”
She smiled and let out a small laugh, just a puff of air, really. But it was something.
“Were you okay last night? With the girls?”
“Yeah,” she said with a shrug. “I was fine. Why?”
“You just seemed a little edgy.”
“It was nothing,” she said, as he knew she would. But then she inhaled and paused, as if thinking of the right words. She bit her bottom lip.
“What is it?” Steady, Ty.
She shook her head. “I think I’ll make pancakes for breakfast. Think they’d like that?”
He hesitated, watched her face for . . . for what? It wasn’t like she was depressed. Or angry. Or volatile. She was his Betsy. His sensitive, funny, private, and beautiful wife. What would he even be looking for?
He smiled. “They’ll love it.”
When Ty pulled open
