the wedding was small. a courthouse thing with wildflowers in your hair and him crying when he saw you. you laughed at him for that. he still brings it up.

clara came first. she had his curls and your eyes. mattheo held her like she was made of glass, swore he’d burn the world for her. he meant it.

elijah came eleven months later. quieter baby. clingier. you didn’t sleep for two years straight.

now clara is two. elijah is one. it’s five in the evening and both of them are crying.

the kitchen smells like burnt onions. there’s porridge smeared on the walls. a pile of laundry sits unfolded on the couch. you haven’t brushed your hair since yesterday.

the front door opens.