He burst into giggles. “Nooo, it’s just Turtle. He’s really slow, but he’s nice.”
I laughed, buckled him into his car seat, and handed him his usual afternoon juice pouch. He pierced the straw into the foil like a tiny knight with a lance and took a loud sip. Then, as casually as someone commenting on the weather, he dropped a sentence that made my whole world tilt on its axis.
I blinked.
“Whose kids, honey?”
“Daddy’s other kids,” he said, like I should already know. “The ones who call him Dad too. They had juice boxes and a bouncy couch.”
A bouncy couch?
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