She'd sent Charlie to stay with Peggy and Steve overnight, of course. Her son was barely two but had the energy of a child twice his age because of his father's DNA. Lord knew he didn't get energy from her. Abi could tell that Hemingway would feel better, and her attention could be focussed on Hemingway and Jack. She let him cook, let him fuss and fiddle, calmed him when he needed it, though he didn't seem to need it as often as she'd thought he would.
"Dinner smells great," she remarked softly, getting up and fixing the awry buttons on his shirt before she patted it down. "Everything will be alright, old man. He's your boy like Charlie is mine."
Her head turned at the echoing knock on the door, past the soft music playing in the living room. "You want to get it or you want me to get it?"