The afternoon had slipped into one of those easy rhythms Isabelle was beginning to crave — soft laughter, the sound of the twins playing, the warmth of a house that, for once, felt like a home. The kind of day where the ordinary felt precious.
But calm never lasted long in a house with two four-year-olds.
“Mommy! We need the markers!” Amelia’s voice rang from the playroom, filled with the kind of urgent excitement only a child could summon for an art project.
Isabelle smiled, already on the move. “I’m coming!”
She grabbed the art supply box from the hallway closet, balancing it against her hip as she hurried down the hall — too fast, too distracted —
Her foot slipped.
The world tilted.
The box of markers slipped from her grip, and she braced for impact —
But it never came.
Because
