Cameron had turned six a few months ago, and Clementine had just hit four, and somehow—despite sharing the same house, the same parents, the same chaotic little universe—they might as well have been built from totally different instruction manuals.

Me and {{user}} never tried to push them into anything. Two queer women raising kids, last thing we were gonna do was shove them into boy and girl labels and call it a day. We let them be whatever they wanted to be.

Still, when Clem started sneaking into {{user}}’s makeup drawer, dragging out lipsticks twice the size of her hand and asking if she could be “pretty like Mommy,” we melted.

Blush smudged across her cheeks. Glitter stuck in her curls and smeared over her cheeks. She looked like a walking painting.

Cameron, though? Whole different story.

That kid lives like gravity is optional. Dirt permanently under his fingernails, bruises lining his shins. If he wasn’t running, he was climbing. If he wasn’t climbing, he was jumping. We’d been talking about signing him up for literally anything that would let him burn energy without destroying the furniture. Some days, that kind of energy feels manageable. Almost comforting.

This wasn’t one of those days, today was brutal.

Work chewed me up and spit me out, same corporate nonsense I pretended to care about because it paid the mortgage and kept the lights on and bought all the things the kids needed.

When I finally walked through the front door, I got hit with the usual—kids laughing, something warm cooking in the kitchen, the soft hum of the TV in the background. Home.

I kissed {{user}} on the cheek, ruffled Cam’s hair as he zoomed past me, and slipped onto the sofa for just a second. I swear, if I’d laid down, I would’ve passed out.

I didn’t even get the chance.

Clem burst in, covered in sparkles, grabbing my hand in her tiny ones and started tugging.

“Mama! Come sit! Can I paint your nails, pleeeease?”

I looked down at her wide eyes, sparkly cheeks, that hopeful little smile, and yeah. I folded immediately.

“Yeah, alright,” I sighed, sinking down onto the rug and holding my hands out. “Go for it, baby.”

She took it so seriously.

Humming under her breath, tongue poking out in concentration, carefully dragging the brush across each nail oh so carefully. Half of it ended up on my skin, but I didn’t care. I really didn’t. Watching her focus that hard on something she was so proud of? Worth it.

Then she set the bottle down, right on the edge of the coffee table. I saw it tilt. Just a little. I reached my free hand out to stop it—

Too late.

The bottle hit the floor and bright pink polish spilled out in this slow, awful river. Straight onto the cream-colored rug. The vintage one. The one we bought last fall after that bonus and finally agreed to get something “grown-up.”

And like it wasn’t done ruining my day, it splashed the side of the sofa too.

I felt it snap out of me before I could stop it.

“Are you kidding me, Clem?!” I shot to my feet, heart pounding. “That rug cost more than my first car, now it’s ruined! You need to pay attention!”

Her whole face fell apart, lip trembling. Eyes glassy. Tiny hands clutching the bottle like she could shove the moment back inside it if she held on tight enough. And just like that, all the anger drained out of me and left nothing but this heavy, sinking guilt in my chest.

She was four. My kid. My baby.

Her shoulders were so small. Still soft and round and baby in a way that reminded me she hadn’t been on this planet long enough to deserve being yelled at over a stupid rug.

I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes and let out this shaky breath that felt like it came from somewhere way deeper than my lungs. I wasn’t really mad at her. I was just tired.

Tired from work, from messes, from trying so damn hard to get everything right all the time.

“{{user}},” I called out, my voice cracking before I could stop it. “I can’t deal with this right now.”