By the time I enter our bedroom, she’s sitting in a sea of bright yellow paper, her arm shoved under our mattress, yanking more and more out. They keep coming like a clown’s handkerchief with no end in sight. She holds one up to the light like it’s money she needs to check for authenticity. “These babies must’ve worked as soon as I got them. Maybe too well. What if we have twins? A triplet?” I lean against the door, watching my wife exist. Loudly. Messily. Unapologetically. Just the way a woman loved is meant to bloom. Like a rose in spring.
