When the babies arrived, they came out crying, warm, and absolutely flawless. Leon first, then Miles — or perhaps it was the reverse. I was entirely too exhausted to be certain.
Yet I do recall Miles’s little hands squeezed tight, as if he entered this world prepared for a battle. And Leon, much calmer, looking up at me as though he already understood everything necessary about the whole world.
Those initial years were a hazy mix of formula, high temperatures, and soft songs murmured through dry lips in the middle of the night. I knew the exact squeal of the baby carriage wheels and the precise moment the daylight struck our living room carpet.
There were evenings when I sat on the kitchen tiles and swallowed spoonfuls of peanut butter on dry bread as I wept from pure fatigue. I stopped tracking how many birthday cakes I whipped up from scratch — not because I had extra hours, but because buying them from a store seemed like a failure.
They shot up in sudden spurts. One afternoon they were wearing zip-up sleepwear, laughing at old children’s shows. The very next, they were bickering about who had to haul the shopping bags from the vehicle.
“Mom, why don’t you take the large piece of meat?” Miles asked once when he was roughly eight years old.
“Because I need you to get taller than me,” I replied, grinning around a bite of rice and greens.
“I already have,” he smirked.
“By just half an inch,” Leon chimed in, rolling his eyes.
They were distinct; they always had been. Miles was the fire — headstrong and quick with his comebacks, constantly eager to question boundaries. Leon was my reflection — deeply thoughtful, calculated, and a steady presence that kept everything grounded.
