That night, Charles set a freshly prepared glass of warm milk on the bedside table just as Janice returned from checking on Trista.
"She asleep?" he asked, lifting the quilt so she could slip in beside him.
Janice nodded. She'd gotten used to putting their daughter to bed every night now. Trista clung to her more than before, and—well—no matter how distant a mother might feel at first, the bond always came rushing back when it was your own flesh and blood.
"Don't go picking her up all the time," Charles frowned slightly, his voice laced with concern. "You need to take care of yourself."
Janice rolled her eyes, but she could see the seriousness behind his words. Lately, every little thing she did seemed to tug at his heartstrings. He was as tense as when she'd been pregnant with Trista—watching her every move, afraid she'd forget she was pregnant and trip over her own feet.
If it were up to him, he wouldn't let her out of his sight for a single second.
