Mason blinked, glancing around before returning to his main question. “Why are the boys staying here?”
His eyes moved to the folded sheet of paper sitting quietly on the coffee table. It was the exact schedule he had refused to follow the night before. Then he looked back at me, his brows pulling together in disbelief.
“You took my kids and left?” he asked.
“Our kids,” I corrected softly.
“Bring them home,” he demanded.
“No,” I said.
“You took my kids and left?” he repeated, his anger visibly rising.
His jaw tightened as he took a step forward. “Brianna.”
“No,” I repeated firmly.
For five months, I had spent every single day figuring things out before Mason had to notice there was a problem. Then I broke my arm, and for the first time, I could not keep doing his half too.
Two days before I went to my mom’s place, I was sitting on the nursery floor trying to snap Liam’s sleeper with my left hand. My right arm was completely trapped in a heavy white cast. Noah had started fussing behind me on the play mat, and my tea sat completely cold and untouched on the changing table.
