She’d sat on the news for four long hours. Reined in the urge to divulge it via text. This was not news for texting. She’d held it in as Bee had bustled through the front door, Fergus and Robbie in tow, Robbie in full tantrum mode. Waited patiently for Robbie to calm down and, when requested, made a guess at what he wanted for his birthday. Then watched as Bee smoothed out the ensuing fistfight after Fergus blurted out what it was (a Nerf Blaster), spoiling Robbie’s guessing game. But now, the boys were finally occupied, their hands full of the grass, dead leaves, and shards of old brick they were industriously collecting and dumping in a pile in the middle of the lawn. Dirt in their hair and under their nails. Content.
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