Chapter 48

Savannah

By the middle of December, I’ve got three crockpots in rotation, a basket of clean burp cloths on my dining table, two separate cookie doughs chilling in the fridge, and a one-year-old boy who thinks tissue paper was invented specifically for his personal destruction.

Wyatt stands in the middle of my living room in fleece footie pajamas covered in little green trees, both hands buried in