“Okay, boys,” she breathed, trying to lull them into confessing with a calm tone. “Carter, why did you think Beckett needed you to cut his hair.” “Well, Mom.” It was always ‘mom’ from Carter, never ‘mama’ or ‘mommy.’ Beneath his six-year-old surface, the kid was forty years old. “You said you had to give us all haircuts ‘cuz of pictures, and you know Beckett gets scared of the clippers. So I used scissors.” He was so proud of his problem-solving.
