I moved into our basement guest bedroom in the middle of August.
For four months, I slept in the hallway between our three daughters’ rooms, on the thinner layer of a salmon-colored Nugget couch. I’d spent those nights alternating which side I laid my head on, my twins would take turns waking up and calling out for me, and they needed to see my head to know I was there. The light, they insist we keep on, shining from the bathroom directly into my eyes. Classical music or Laurie Berkner blaring from my phone.
My husband would walk past me at three in the morning on his way to work.
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