Like we’re a pain and always in your way—”

“No.”

Mack shrugged. “Okay.”

His son’s half-hearted response made Brock want to hit something, throw something, which wasn’t probably the right response. Brock drew a breath, and then another, trying to be patient, trying to understand when he couldn’t understand at all. He’d never dated anyone after their mother in order to protect and preserve Amy’s memory. He’d refused to spoil them so his kids would be raised with solid family values. And he’d only sent his kids away to school recently when it became clear that they needed to be pushed, socially, academically, if they were to succeed.

Brock crossed his arms, hiding his hard fists. “Don’t say okay just to placate me, Mack. You can speak up, have an opinion.”

The boy slumped even more unhappily. “I don’t want to make you mad. I don’t like making you mad.”

“You don’t have to be scared of me,” Brock retorted.

Mack looked up at him, worry in his dark eyes. “But you are kind of scary when you’re mad.”

Brock couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Dumbfounded, he stared at his boots, unable to think or speak. Were his kids really afraid of him? His gut churned. “Mack, I’ve never hit you. Never even spanked you. How can you be afraid of me?”

Mack’s shoulders lifted and fell. “You don’t smile or laugh or do fun stuff with us. You just get mad at us. A lot.”

Brock closed his eyes at the rush of words. It was a lot to take in. Hard to process it all. He exhaled slowly. “So I don’t do fun stuff, and just get mad. Is that it?”

Mack nodded.

Brock felt like punching something. Instead he drew a deep breath, trying hard to sort out everything he was hearing. “Can you explain the stuff? What stuff are you missing out on?”

“Everything. Going to the movies and having friends over and taking trips together somewhere fun. The only time you’ve ever taken us anywhere was when you took us to boarding school.”

Molly opened the bathroom door to shout. “And Christmas! We don’t ever have Christmas or Valentine’s Day or Easter or Fourth of July. We don’t do holidays or anything fun because you don’t believe in fun. It’s against your religion apparently.”

Brock clapped a hand on his head thinking his brain was going to explode. “That’s ridiculous. You are both being ridiculous. Knock it off and grow up. You’re eleven, almost twelve—” he stopped midsentence, hearing himself.

Grow up.

He’d just told his eleven-year-olds to grow up. It’s what his dad always used to say to him and look how close he and his dad were today....

Brock exhaled slowly. If Amy were here, she’d be disgusted with him. If Amy were here...

... none of this would be happening.

The kids would have Christmas and Valentine’s Day and all the other days. They’d laugh and play because Amy believed in laughing and playing.

That’s why he’d fallen in love with Amy. She made him want to laugh and play and without her....

Without her, life was just hard. He missed her. He needed her. Not just for her laughter, but for her support.

Raising two kids was hard.

Brock had been doing it a long time on his own but God help him, he was tired and lonely and alone.

He swallowed with difficulty, aware that the twins were staring at him, anxious and worrying about what would happen next.

His eyes burned.