The last thing Lynda expected to hear was the doorbell. Didnít she already have enough to deal with? Raising four-year-old triplets was a feat in itself; having to do so single-handedly was even worse. Of course, Lynda had learned to deal over the yearsÖ but that didnít mean she was thrilled when she saw the return address on the large caramel-colored package the FedEx guy held out to her. It was Joeís.
Damn it, she thought. Hadnít she gotten away from that old life? Being married to Joe had not exactly been a picnic. Lynda remembered countless nights when she would lie awake in bed, only to have him come home with a ìheadacheî and smelling like a cow pie. No surprise, considering he was a cattle rancher, but it sure wasnít a turn-on. Lyndaís stomach churned at the memory. Sheíd had to get away, that was all. Who could blame her for wanting to leave Texas? Oregon was a much nicer place to raise children. Speaking of whomÖ whatís that noise?
Marie, Alex, and Josie rushed into the room, a cacophony of velcro- stapped shoes hitting the linoleum mixed with mirthful cheers of children who had either just learned they were going to Disneyland or had discovered that finger-paint does indeed work on walls as well as paper. It was the latter. Lynda tried to simultaneously distance the primary-colored hands from her brand-new dry-clean-only khakis and sign the form the FedEx man held impatiently. Once sheíd finally signed for the bulbous package, she balanced it on her hip and sighed, exasperated. It wouldnít have hurt Joe one little bit to at least accept part-time custody of the Terrible ThreeÖ although, when she really thought about it, Lynda didnít want her precious children near that creep. They may have been half his genetically, but ever since his arrest for molesting that six-year-old, Lynda refused to leave them alone in the same room together.
Lynda followed the children through the swinging double door entrance to the kitchen, careful to explain to them that they ìwouldnít get any cookies if they touched Mommy without washing their hands first,î to admire their artwork. Artwork? The wall behind the table was covered with stripes of red and yellow, giving the illusion of a great neon tiger crouching, ready to pounce, beneath the vinyl-and-metal bar stools.
ìWhat is this?î Lynda asked somewhat tersely. ìHow many times have I told you this? Art belongs on paper!î
The three ceased their jubilant laughter almost immediately. Marie ducked behind the stove counter, the only part of her left visible being her gigantic blue eyes peeking out. Alex froze, his full pink lips pursed in a pseudo-pout. Josie carefully wiped her fingers on her green corduroy jumper before offering them tentatively out to Mommy for a hug, which she did not receive. A tear slid down her cheek, which she wiped away, leaving behind a trail of crimson paint. It looked, thought Lynda, slightly like blood. She felt a lump in her throat at the thought and, to hide her feelings, she shifted the package to the other hip. It was rather heavy and felt breakable.
Nobody spoke for a full five minutes. Then, as carefully as an ice skater testing the pond water in winter, Marie peeped out, ìHappy birthday, Mommy.î
Lynda gazed at the box she held. On it were written the words ìhappyî and ìbirthday,î but she didnít associate them. Instead, she dropped the cardboard burden to the floor and kicked it over to rest near the garbage can. She knelt down and opened her arms wide to let her kids in, paint and all. ìI love you guys,î she murmured through her tears.

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