Everett thought about that often, in the quiet moments most people never notice. The five minutes before the twins woke up. The drive home from the office, radio low, nothing urgent waiting for him anymore. He used to fill those quiet moments with worry. Back when Paige managed everything and he managed nothing. Now he filled them with small, ordinary gratitude instead. A working phone line. A wife who called when something was wrong, and trusted that he'd pick up. Two sons who ran to the door every evening. Shouting his name before he'd even parked the truck.
Some evenings, Naomi still made a pie from her mother's recipe. Everett always claimed it tasted better than the ones from the county fair. "You're just saying that," she'd tell him, every single time. "I'm not," he'd say back. "I've had seven years to compare." Some arguments, they'd both decided, were worth having forever.
