Jolene came every Sunday morning with bagels from Highland Avenue and strawberry cream cheese because Colleen had once declared it “the breakfast of women who survived teenage heartbreak and still expect miracles.”
She read to the babies in wild theatrical voices. Margot loved the grumpy bear voice. Theodore laughed at the squeaky mouse. Bridget preferred turning pages with solemn authority as if literature were serious business.
One rainy Sunday, Jolene held Bridget against her shoulder and said softly, “Your mother would’ve done this better.”
Dorothy, from the kitchen doorway, answered without looking up from the kettle. “Your mother would’ve loved that you came anyway.”
Jolene cried in the pantry for five minutes after that.
Fletch built the treehouse in late summer.
It was absurd, really, because the babies were far too young for it. But he needed something to make with his hands, something that transformed grief into lumber and bolts instead of broken teeth and broken men.
He spent three weekends building it in the backyard oak.