Becca.

“F*ck,” Alessandro said over breakfast while munching apple slices in his highchair.

I kept bottle-feeding Dahlia, mentally counting backwards from twenty and trying not to panic over Alessandro’s new obsession. I wished my father was there to help. He’d know how to take care of the swearing.

James came into the nursery, then. Alessandro’s face lit up and he held out chubby little arms. “F*ck!” he insisted.

“I think he wants you ...