TWENTY-FIVE
“Noah, you’re not eating all your sandwich,” Emmie said. “Eat your sandwich or Poppy will tell Mommy.”
Sitting on the couch with Emmie standing behind her, Poppy was having her hair brushed by the eldest little one while she braided Ashlee’s hair. The youngest was standing in front of her playing with the hair clasps. Noah was in front of the TV watching Shrek. The girls had already eaten their lunch while Noah was taking his time.
He’d been grumpy, like his uncle, maybe because of his parents’ arguing or because he was tired. She swayed toward the second when he lay down on the floor on his side and slipped his thumb between his lips.
“You have very beautiful hair, Ashlee,” Poppy said, impressed by the length in the two-year-old’s locks. “Both of you do.”
“I like your hai
