The fireplace glowed with the heat of an hours-old flame. Dinner was prepared, eaten, and washed up, each child wrapped in clean pajamas and mango shampoo scent. Their father had gathered them for bedtime singing, Bible reading, and prayers. Extra weary at the end of the day from being sick, I curled up on the couch near the fire, listening to the tunes wafting from the kids’ bedroom.

Freshly-washed blond curls sparkling, he toddled in and climbed up next to me, too tired for the singing and lengthy discussion on why taking God’s name in vain is not allowed in our home. The heat rolling off his skin told me his fever was back. I gave him medicine and he wedged his body in the space between my side and the couch. His day-to-day insatiable curiosity and non-stop nosiness melted away into snuggly sleepiness.

Just my youngest and I. It was a rare treat, not enjoyed since I’d snuggled with a nursing infant version of him in the wee hours of the morning.