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Seventy-Nine

Isobelle

What a wonderful way to kick-start Christmas, with acid reflux, and a spine-crippling backache. Merry Christmas, Isobelle. Just one more week until the babies are born. Then I could kiss goodbye to the next eighteen years. No more peaceful lie-ins. Adios freedom. Au revoir relaxation. My life will belong to the pups.

“Hey, did Santa steal one of my toothbrush heads or is this the Tooth Fairy's idea of sabotage?” Alex uttered, sounding as sarcastic as ever.

After blanching with horror, I pretended not to hear him and continued to peel vegetables at the sink.

“Isobelle?” he pressed, dragging out my name in a mocking tone.

Act casually. He can't possibly know what I’ve done because I discarded the evidence.

I could feel his intense stare burning holes in the back of my head.

“How should I know?” I mumbled, pretending to be clueless.

“So, the mystery continues,” he mused, drumming a finger against his chin. “The battery was completely drained, and I know for certain I charged it
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