Not reading a board book. Not warming bottles. She was flat on her back on the cream wool rug, arms spread, wearing the crisp navy nanny uniform Margaret had insisted on for “propriety.” But her hands were encased in bright-yellow rubber gloves—the kind used for scrubbing toilets or tackling greasy pots.
“Up we go, my brave knights!” she called, grin so wide it looked almost painful.
Ethan’s jaw slackened.
His sons—his heirs, dressed in miniature denim overalls and white tees—stood on her. Literally. Nico balanced on her chest, tiny sneakers planted over the embroidered logo. Santi teetered on her stomach, wobbling but upright, pudgy hands gripping her shoulders for stability.
Santi—the boy two specialists had labeled “severe lower-limb hypotonia,” the boy who still army-crawled when Ethan was home—was standing. Laughing. Showing pink gums in a wide, gummy smile.
Lena held their ankles gently with those absurd yellow gloves, legs rigid to form a stable base. “Careful, here comes the northern gale!” She rocked side to side in a controlled quake.