“Austin, getting frustrated or overwhelmed by screaming newborns doesn’t make you a bad brother, it just makes you a totally normal nine-year-old person,” I told him warmly.

The relief that loosened his tense little shoulders was immediate, as though a five-hundred-pound weight had been lifted off his chest.

“I still really want to help you take care of them, though, Mom,” he added quickly, eager to prove his worth again.

“You can help when you feel like it, Austin, but your main job in this house is to be a kid, play baseball, do your homework and ride your bike,” I insisted firmly.

He went quiet again, staring at the carpet between us, and suddenly the very first question he had asked me in the kitchen came back to me with haunting clarity.