The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 511

Mia's POV

"Is it fair?" Ethan's brow furrows. "The distribution seems equitable, but we haven't established any criteria for the naming process. What if someone chooses a name that another person wanted?"

"Then they deal with it," Kyle says.

"That seems arbitrary."

"Life is arbitrary, Ethan." Kyle's mouth curves. Just slightly. "The sooner you learn that, the happier you'll be."

Ethan opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

"That's surprisingly nihilistic for 6 AM," he says finally.

Kyle laughs. The sound is weak—barely more than a breath—but it's there. Real. And something in my chest loosens just a little at the sound of it.

"Okay." Alexander is already moving, sliding off the couch, crossing to the whelping box with the kind of energy that only five-year-olds and certain varieties of terrier seem to possess. "I get to pick first because I'm the oldest."

"You're not the oldest," Ethan says. "We're twins."

"I was born seven minutes before you."

"Seven minutes doesn't constitute—"

"SEVEN MINUTES."

"Fine." Ethan sighs. The sigh of someone who has had this argument before and knows he will have it again. "You pick first."

Alexander kneels beside the box. His hands hover over the puppies—not touching, just hovering—as if he's trying to feel their energy, their essence, the thing that makes each one unique.

"This one," he says finally. He points to the dark brown puppy with the white patch. "This one is... Champion."

"Champion?" Ethan's nose wrinkles. "That's not a name. That's a title."

"It's BOTH. He's a champion. He helped his brother survive. He provided emotional support."

I watch Alexander move to the next puppy. The golden one. His hand hovers over it for a moment, then descends to touch the soft fur, light as a feather.

"And this one," he says, "is Sunny. Because she's gold. Like sunshine. Like... like happiness."

"How do you know it's a she?" Ethan asks.

"I just do."

"That's not empirical."

"Some things don't need to be empirical, E. Some things you just KNOW."

Ethan stands. Crosses to the whelping box. His movements are more deliberate than Alexander's—considered, calculated, as if he's approaching a complex equation rather than a pile of sleeping puppies.

"This one," he says after a long moment. He points to the black and tan puppy. "This one is Newton."

"Newton?" Alexander's face scrunches. "Like the cookie?"

"Like the scientist. Sir Isaac Newton. He developed the laws of motion and universal gravitation. He also made significant contributions to—"

"Ethan. We get it. Science guy."

"He was more than just a science guy. He was one of the most influential figures in—"

"ETHAN."

"Fine." Ethan pushes his glasses up. "Newton. Because I like the name. That's my reason."

"See? That wasn't so hard."

Ethan's second choice takes longer. He studies each remaining puppy with the intensity he usually reserves for particularly challenging math problems. His lips move slightly—counting something, calculating something, processing in the way only Ethan processes.

"This one," he says finally. The pale cream-colored puppy. "This one is Ghost."

"Ghost?" I say.

"Because of the coloring." Ethan's voice is matter-of-fact. "The pale fur. It's almost translucent in certain lights. Like something that isn't quite there."

"That's..." Alexander searches for the word. "Actually kind of cool."

"Thank you."

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late."

Madison shifts in my lap. Her weight redistributes—heavier on my left side, lighter on my right. She's watching her brothers, watching the puppies, watching everything with those dark eyes that see more than they say.

"Madison?" I brush hair from her face. "It's your turn, sweetheart."

She doesn't move at first. Just sits there, looking at the whelping box, at the two remaining puppies—the patchwork one and the fighter.

Then she slides off my lap.

He's looking at me. Those gray eyes—Kyle's eyes—fixed on my face with an intensity that seems too big for a five-year-old. Too determined. Too sure.

"They're family," he says. "You don't give away family."

"Baby—"

"They're Gas's babies. Gas is OUR baby. So they're OUR babies too. That's how it works. That's how family works." His voice cracks on the last word. Just slightly. "You don't throw away family just because it's hard."

I don't have a response to that.

"He's right." Ethan's voice is quiet. He's not looking at me—he's looking at the puppies, at the way they're piled together, at the way Gas has curved her body around them like a shield. "From a logical standpoint, separating them could cause psychological distress to both the mother and the offspring. Dogs form strong social bonds, and—"

"Ethan." Alexander's voice is sharp. "Can we not do the science thing right now?"

"I was supporting your position."

"I know. But you were doing it in a boring way."

"My way isn't boring. It's factual."

"Same thing."

Madison hasn't spoken. She's back in my lap—when did she climb back up?—her body warm against mine, her breathing slow and even. She's not asleep, though. I can feel the tension in her shoulders. The way she's listening.

"Madison?" I say. "What do you think?"

She's quiet for a moment. Her fingers find Eleanor's ear and begin to worry at the worn fabric.

"When I was little," she says finally, "before... before everything. My daddy had a dog. A big one. Brown. His name was Captain."

She pauses. Swallows.

"When Daddy got sick, Mommy said we had to get rid of Captain. She said we couldn't take care of a dog and a sick person at the same time. So Captain went away."

Her voice is barely audible now. A thread of sound in the quiet room.

"And after that... after that he got worse." She looks up at me. Her dark eyes are wet. "Please don't make us throw them away, Mama. Please."

I can't speak.

I can't speak because there's something in my throat—a stone, a knot, something that has lodged itself behind my tongue and refuses to move. My arms tighten around Madison. Around this small girl who has lost so much and is asking me to let her keep something. Asking me to let her love something without the fear of having it taken away.

"Okay," I hear myself say. The word comes out rough. Broken. "Okay. We'll keep them."