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identical in color to her own. A high-energy child who demanded action, he liked to sing very loud, to play miniature golf using three balls, to blow soap bubbles at his baby brother’s face.
    “Not tonight. We can read two stories tomorrow night.” She wanted both boys to go to sleep so she could take a bath and go to bed herself. She would lounge in the tub, her head propped against a folded towel—a good end to this long, unpleasant day. The warm water would lick her weary skin and soothe her achy muscles, and the steamy bathroom air would clear her congested sinuses. As a treat, she would even dump in a handful of her new aromatherapy salts—her cousin Jennifer’s gift to the wedding guests. Thinking of the bath, she could almost smell the pungent lavender-scented vapor and feel the silky water.
    “Please?” Chris whined. “Read Melanie’s Walk .”
    In so many ways, he was like Jake—persistent, emphatic, self-assured, with a take-charge demeanor. No matter what Chris did in his adult life, she could already tell he would be a leader. Last week, when she picked up the boys from Rose Marie’s, Chris had organized a parade, had appointed himself as the grand marshal. His best friend Davey was assigned to pull the wagon filled with stuffed animals. Sawyer rode the trike, with Beefeater, Rose Marie’s old dog, tethered to the handlebars by a dirty piece of rope. Meghan, and then Amanda, brought up the rear, one waving a pennant that said, G O B LUE, and the other banging pot lids like cymbals.
    She sighed and considered Chris’s request for a story. “Okay. Just one.” She was too tired to talk him out of it. “Sit here while I feed Eddie.”
    Chris’s fluid body wiggled and molded itself into the narrow space between her hip and the arm of the easy chair. His dewy skin felt like chamois against her elbow. She took a deep breath and, in spite of her clogged nose, could smell his scent—earthy, dense, fresh like ripe pears.
    Sometimes Chris could be loveable, in his sweet, determined way, as he was right now. And yet, earlier, at dinner, he had begged for chocolate milk rather than 2 percent. She refused. He begged. She refused again. He begged again.
    Finally, she spun around, grabbed his elbow, and yelled, “I said no. Quit begging. I can’t stand a beggar.”
    His eyes had flashed fear. He glared at her, drove a look of hurt and loathing into her heart. Tears flooded his lashes. She held firm and poured white milk into his glass, with a promise they would have chocolate pudding for dessert.
    She unsnapped the left flap of her nursing bra and coaxed Eddie to her breast. He was slow to take it, but after she brushed the nipple against the corner of his lips, he finally latched on. Usually he ate with relentless vigor, the skin over his temples pulsing as he worked his sucking muscles. Tonight, he dabbled at her breast and swallowed very little. What was wrong?
    She opened Chris’s book to page one and began coughing.
    “Read,” Chris yelled.
    “Soon as I quit coughing,” she gasped. She took a deep breath, held it, let it out slowly. Then she began to read.
    The rhyme and rhythm of her voice seemed to hold Chris in a trance. He had already learned the letters that spelled “Chris,” “mom,” and “dad,” and before long, he would be able to read the words in his books himself.
    Usually she treasured their evening routine of snuggling and reading, knowing that years hence she would ache to have him young and dependent and near her again. Since the moment of his birth, he seemed hell-bent to leave, seemed fearless of the road ahead. He yearned to understand everything about the world and to race away, toward its farthest reaches. She longed to keep him close for as long as possible, but right now, she wanted to skip the story.
    The throbbing behind her eyes felt as if her face would fall off. She flipped two pages at once.
    “Hey,” Chris yelled. “You forgot the part where Melanie gives the