Wren

Quincy holds up two similar onesies in different colours. “What do you think?”

“Hm.” I squint. “Definitely purple.”

“You don’t like pink?” She pouts, brows raised.

“I do—you know what? Let’s get both.”

Her head bobs on an excited nod, and she stuffs both in the cart.

When Quincy called and asked if I’d like to escort her to do some shopping for the baby, I couldn’t say no.

Being cooped up at home, occasionally surrounded by Ezra is bad for my mental ...