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It was 2 a.m. on a Thursday when Liam started crying — that sharp, hiccupping wail that always woke his brother 30 seconds later. I was about to drag myself out of bed when I felt movement beside me.
Nick sat up.
He started humming an off-key, broken version of a lullaby his mom used to sing whenever she visited.
When Noah joined in with his own cries, Nick actually smiled. “Guess we’re both up, huh, buddy?”
I stood in the doorway, watching. For the first time in weeks, he looked like he was actually trying.
Not performing for an audience. Just trying.
The next morning, he made breakfast. The eggs were overcooked, and the coffee was strong enough to strip paint, but he’d made the effort.
He slid a mug toward me and said quietly, “You were right.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“About what?”
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