“We should make one.” I’m trying to cut the penne pasta for Easton’s lunch, concentrating on cutting it in half lengthwise, like Briar told us to do. My eyes stay on the noodle. “Hmm?” I hear Silas wander over, his hand brushing against the little bit of exposed skin underneath my crop top. “A baby,” he says casually as Easton chirps from his highchair a few feet away. He’s nearly one now, and already he seems like a teenager to me.
