GENESIS

I was in the kitchen, zipping up the last lunch box, three identical ones lined up on the counter like little soldiers when Izzy’s voice hit decibel levels that should be illegal before 8 a.m.

“MOMMMMMM, DASH IS YANKING ON MY PONYTAIL!”

I winced, fingers freezing on the zipper.

“Sweetheart,” I called over my shoulder, keeping my tone even, “you don’t need to yell. I’m right here.”

“But he’s pulling it!”

I turned.

There they were both of them in their booster seats at the dining table, Izzy’s face flushed pink with righteous fury, ponytail half-undone, Dash looking calm and innocent with a fistful of pink elastic in his...