Page 105 of Suddenly Entwined

“Earlier, before supper, Natalie was upset and didn’t want to talk to me at all. It made me worried that I don’t have what it takes.”

Mom laughs, and it catches me off guard.

“Oh, Caro, do you remember how often you and your brother gave me the silent treatment?”

I bite my lip, recalling slammed bedroom doors and exasperated sighs.

“Were we assholes?”

She laughs again, holding her arms out wide. “Oh, yeah. Big ones. Being biologically related to your child doesn’t make them any less likely to give you the attitude of the century. Just give them some time, some space, and whatever you do, don’t bicker with Berg while it’s happening.”

It’s almost freaky how accurately she’s depicting my afternoon.

“Just because the kids are in a mood doesn’t mean you have to jump on that train with them.”

“I need a notebook,” I joke, wishing I had a way to bottle all this experienced mom wisdom.

“No, but you might need a night off. Want me to see if the girls want to spend the night here?”

They’ve been glued to my mom’s side all evening, sporting aprons I used to wear when I was a little girl and enjoying the big backyard.

“I’ll ask Berg.”

She smiles conspiratorially. “I already did.”

***

“I don’t know, Berg,” I call out so he can hear me over the popcorn machine, “it feels sort of wrong to do movie night without them.”

He pokes his head around the corner. “They’ll live. Besides, you don’t think your mom has a movie or something turned on for them by now?”

He’s right. I know my parents will dote on those girls all evening, spoiling them rotten. We’ll probably have to drag them kicking and screaming back home tomorrow. But tonight, we can enjoy each other’s company, even if my mind keeps floating to how the girls are doing every ten minutes. Berg zipped home to grab their jammies and toothbrushes and favourite stuffed animals, and then we headed back together. While Berg is on snack duty, I thumb through one of the many leather bound photo albums that live on a shelf near the television. The girls and I have looked through a few of them together. They love to show me Berg and Trudy’s wedding photos and they burst out laughing every time they see the picture of Berg holding his nose while trying to change one of Natalie’s first diapers. This particular book seems to be full of birthday parties. Page after page documents photos of amazing birthday cakes. At first I wonder if that was Trudy’s specialty, but these are more recent, and the cakes only improve with each year.

“Berg?” I call.

“What’s up?”

“Who made these cakes?”

The living room curtains are drawn shut against the last of the evening sun and soft blankets line the back of the oversized couch. He saunters into the living room with no shirt on andlow slung sweatpants, a massive stainless steel bowl of popcorn in one hand. My eyes widen in appreciation.

“Delicious,” I say, grinning at him.

We both know I’m not talking about the snacks.

I refocus on the photos.

“The cakes. Who made them?”

Berg rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Oh. I did.”

I tap my index finger against one with icing done in a perfect rainbow gradient.

“You can make cakes like this?”

“Yeah, that one is from Louisa’s birthday. But most people left, including you, by the time we cut it.”

I made a mental note to sing her happy birthday tomorrow.

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