“I literally just repeated your exact sentence,” I replied, keeping my voice dangerously level.
“The truck has climate control,” Brooke countered, as if she were pointing out a luxury amenity at a five-star resort.
“So does this house.”
Mom released a heavy, theatrical sigh. “Rupert.”
It was that tone. Bun Bun. (For the historical record, she did).
Brooke defensively folded her arms across her chest. “My twins have established a very clear boundary. They simply do not feel emotionally secure when Owen and Lucy are in their immediate space.”
Her precious twins, Braxton and Brinley, were eight years old.
Owen looked up at me, his eyes wide and uncertain. “Dad, what did we do?”
Before I could form a reassuring syllable, Brooke interjected. “You can be a little… intense, Owen.”
My son blinked, bewildered. “I just said hi to them.”
