2. Wren
WREN
Which, honestly, is effective.
I slap around blindly until my fingers hit my phone somewhere under the other pillow, then squint against the screen’s brightness.
That’s what the label says, because Past Me thinks she’s hilarious.
No. Absolutely not.
Present Me thinks Past Me should learn compassion.
I close my eyes for exactly three seconds before the second alarm goes off.
6:06 — SERIOUSLY. GET UP.
“Rude,” I mumble.
Across the hall, one of the twins shrieks.
Not a scared or injured shriek, but a very specific Calloway-girl shriek that means someone has committed a crime, like using the wrong hairbrush or breathing too close to a precious stuffed animal.
I lie there for one more second and stare at the ceiling.
First day of winter term. First day of my mom’s new hospital shift.
First day of attempting to get four younger siblings out the door before I make it to my own classes looking like a person who has slept, showered, and made responsible life choices.
So, naturally, we are starting with screaming.
Perfect.
I throw off the blankets and grab the sweatshirt off my desk chair, tugging it over the tank top I slept in.
My room is already a disaster even though I unpacked less than a month ago.
A laundry basket of clean clothes sits beside my dresser, unfolded and judging me.
Three notebooks are open on the floor because last night I made a list of the lists I needed to make and then forgot where I put the original list.
Very normal.
Very functional.
My phone buzzes again.
6:08 — PACK LUNCHES. DO NOT FORGET JUICE BOXES. THEY WILL RIOT.
I shove it into my sweatshirt pocket and head into the hallway.
The twins are yelling from their room. I can hear a shower running and music blasting, so I’m assuming Justin is in the bathroom. He claims that the way too loud music is the only way to find his “zen” before heading to school, and who am I to interrupt the method to his madness?
Holden’s bedroom door is shut, which either means he’s still asleep or pretending to be so I don’t ask him to help.
“Daisy took my purple socks!” Lily shouts before I even reach their doorway.
“They were in my drawer!” Daisy shouts back.
“Because you stole them!”
“I borrowed them for forever!”
I stop in the doorway and take in the battlefield.
Daisy is wearing one purple sock and one pink sock, her curls sleep-wild around her face. Lily is standing on her bed in a unicorn nightgown, one hand on her hip, looking like a tiny judge preparing to sentence someone to stuffy jail.
They’re six, almost seven, and in first grade. Identical in the way strangers think matters and completely different in every way that actually does.
Daisy is sunshine with volume control issues.
Lily is the grump with a soft soul, just hidden deep, deep down.
They’re cute, but feral.
“Okay,” I say, clapping once. “Nobody is going to sock jail today.”
Lily points at Daisy. “She stole my sock.”
Daisy gasps. “It was in my drawer!”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Lily says.
“It means I’m keeping the sock.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Daisy, give Lily the purple sock.”
“But my outfit—”
“Pink sock, pink shirt. Purple sock, purple dress. We talked about this.”
Daisy looks down at herself like this is brand-new information and not the same conversation we had last night while laying out their clothes. “Oh.”
Lily hops off the bed and snatches the sock when Daisy peels it off. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Daisy says, very offended.
“Brush teeth,” I tell them. “We’ll fix your hair after breakfast. Shoes by the door so they’re ready when we are.”
“Can I have braids?” Daisy asks.
“Can I have space buns?” Lily asks.
“You can both have ponytails and gratitude.”
They groan in unison, which feels like cooperation, so I take the win.
By the time I get downstairs, Mom is standing at the counter in navy scrubs, packing her lunch with one hand while trying to drink coffee with the other. Her hair is twisted into a low bun, and there are faint purple shadows under her eyes that no amount of concealer has ever been able to hide.
“Morning,” she says, trying to be way too cheery for how exhausted I know she is.
“Morning.” I grab the lunch boxes from the drying rack. “You should go. You’re going to be late.”
“I have twelve minutes.”
“You have seven, because the bridge construction is still awful.”
She sighs and checks the clock on the microwave. “I hate when you’re right.”
“That must be really hard for you, since it happens so often.”
Her mouth twitches. “Careful. I brought you into this world.”
“And then you kept going four more times, which feels like a you problem.”
That earns me a real laugh.
Mom turns back to her lunch, but I see the stack of envelopes near the toaster before she can casually slide a grocery receipt over them. One has red print across the top. Another has FINAL NOTICE in a font that feels unnecessarily aggressive for six in the morning.
My stomach drops.
I look away.
Not because I don’t care.
Because if I look too long, she’ll know I saw, and then she’ll feel worse, and I can’t do anything useful with her guilt when I already have my own.
“I can handle drop-offs,” I say, grabbing bread from the pantry. “Don’t worry.”
“I hate that you have to.”
“I don’t.” I line up slices on the counter. “The twins’ school is on the way.”
“It is not.”
“It is somewhat on the way if I was going in the opposite direction of PCU?”
“Wren.”
I glance over.
Mom’s expression has shifted, guilt seeping through her features. “You have your own life.”
The laugh that comes out of me is almost believable. “Sure. It’s very glamorous. Mostly reminders on my phone and unpaid parking tickets.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“You shouldn’t have to build your schedule around mine.”
My hands still around the peanut butter jar.
For one second, I think about the apartment listings still open in a browser tab on my laptop.
The tiny studio near campus with terrible lighting but enough space for a desk by the window.
The roommate ad Harlow sent me back in November.
The stupid Pinterest board I made for a place I never even got to tour.
Then I think about the red letters on the envelopes.
The twins’ lunch accounts.
Justin’s basketball fees.
Dad’s latest excuse about child support being “delayed,” which is divorced-dad code for I have decided my responsibilities are optional this month.
I twist open the jar.
“It’s fine,” I say.
Before she can say whatever apology is already forming, Holden walks in wearing jeans, a hoodie, and the expression of a sixteen-year-old boy who would rather still be in his bed than here.
“Morning,” he mumbles.
“Wow,” I say. “A full word. Personal growth.”
He opens the fridge. “Don’t start.”
“Too late. I’ve started.”
“Do we have eggs?”
“We have cereal.”
He stares into the fridge for another second, then closes it. “Cereal’s fine.”
It isn’t. He’s six feet tall and constantly hungry, but cereal is fast, and fast is what we have.
Justin comes thundering down the stairs five minutes later with wet hair, one shoe on, and his backpack half-open.
“Has anyone seen my homework packet?”
“No,” Holden and I say at the same time.
Justin looks betrayed. “You don’t even know which packet.”
“You lose all packets equally,” I tell him.
“I don’t lose them. They relocate.”
“Into the trash?” Holden asks.
“That happened one time.”
“More like once a week,” I murmur, finishing up the sandwiches, cutting the crust and making sure I have them in the lunch boxes.
The twins run into the kitchen wearing matching pink coats because apparently the sock war ended in diplomacy. Daisy’s hair is brushed on one side and wild on the other. Lily has toothpaste on her sleeve.
I check my phone.
6:37 — HAIR. SHOES. BACKPACKS. GODSPEED.
I look at the room.
My mom is watching all of us with guilt in her eyes, holding her keys in her hand.
I hand Mom her lunch and nudge her toward the door. “You gotta go, Mom, or you’ll be late.”
She quickly kisses the twins, squeezes Justin’s shoulder, tells Holden to text her when he gets to school, then pauses beside me. “I’ll transfer money for gas after my break.”
“Don’t worry about it. I have more than enough for the week.”
I do not have enough gas. She knows that since she drove my car over the weekend while hers was getting an oil change. I know she knows that. We both pretend anyway because pretending is really the best we can do at this point.
She kisses my temple. “Thank you.”
Then she’s out the door.
For one blissful second, the house is quiet.
Then Daisy says, “I forgot I need one hundred pennies.”
I close my eyes.
“Why,” I ask carefully, “do you need one hundred pennies?”
“For the hundredth day of school.”
“You need them today?”
She nods. “No, tomorrow, but I forgot until today.”
Lily gasps. “I forgot too.”
Justin, from inside the pantry, says, “Natural consequences.”
“You literally have one shoe on,” Holden tells him.
Justin looks down at his one-socked foot. “That’s different. I think I left one down here and only found one in my room.”
I inhale through my nose. I exhale through my mouth.
I am calm. I am capable.
“Everyone eat,” I say. “Holden, find pennies if you can; if not, we will find them tonight. Justin, find your shoe and your packet. Twins, sit down before someone loses a limb. I’m finishing lunches and then will help with finding more pennies.”
By 7:19, we are somehow in the car.
By 7:21, Lily realizes she forgot her backpack.
By 7:23, I am sprinting back into the house in slippers to grab said backpack and because I forgot to change into actual shoes.
By 7:31, we are finally, actually leaving.
I drop the twins first, both of them yelling goodbye and running into the school to find their besties. Justin’s school is next. He finds his history packet crumpled in the side pocket of his backpack two minutes before we pull up, then acts like he knew exactly where he put it.
Holden is last.
Before he gets out, he pauses with one hand on the door handle. “You good?”
The question catches me off guard.