Edward spent most of the night taking care of his two sick
twins. Around six, both of them finally settled down and crashed from being so
sick. Edward sucked down coffee, exhausted from cleaning the never-ending
stream of vomit. The combination of that scent, plus the burnt chicken piccata
made his stomach turn.
Shortly after eight, Esme came over with some plain toast
for the twins. She found her son drooling on the kitchen peninsula, holding a
coffee cup. Brushing his hair back, she gently roused him. “Ma?” he croaked,
sitting up and stretching. Every bone in his spine cracked. “Sorry. I must have
drifted off.”
“Did you get any sleep?” she asked as she refreshed his
coffee.
“No. Liam just loved to projectile vomit,” he said, looking
down at his scrubs. He gave up on clothes and found some scrubs figuring it
would be to change those. “Lucy was a bit more delicate. What did you feed my
children?”
“It was just too much,” Esme said. “And it’s all your
father’s fault. He was the one shoveling down unhealthy food down their
throats.”
“Remind me to kick his ass,” Edward said, rubbing his eyes.
Poor Edward :(
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