Normal women spend their Friday nights in little black dresses, torturous heels, and overpriced champagne.Me? I was on the couch in an oversized hoodie, stuffed with takeout, a lavender sheet mask on my face, watching a serial killer docuseries while FaceTiming with a three-and-a-half-year-old who had the energy of five iced espressos.Honestly, not that different.“And then I ate the pink marshmallow chocolate, and Daddy said I could only take three, so I took four,” his tiny voice crackled through the speaker.I laughed. “Ash, you know that’s not a very diplomatic solution, right?”“What’s diplo—what, Mami?”“It means you’re like a tiny politician who knows how to bend the rules.”“I’m not a politician!” he shouted. “I’m a dinosaur kid!”“Right. My bad. I stand corrected.”His face filled the screen. Chubby cheeks, messy jet-black hair, familiar blue eyes, and that bottom lip pout he gave when he didn’t get his way.Alessio. Ash.Almost four. As talkative as me, unfortunately. But
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