• I have two daughters, ages 4.5 and 1.5 years old.
• I wanted one kid, but my husband felt we should give our oldest a sibling.
• I want them to be friends and maybe I'm projecting the relationship I wanted to have with my brother.

"Can you hold your sister's hand?" I ask my oldest as we walk through the crowded airport.

I decided to fly solo with both kids for a long weekend. In doing so, though, I also put a lot of trust in my 4.5 and 1.5-year-old daughters to get through the airport as a unified team.

"Her hand is sweaty," Maeve said, shaking her little sister off.

"Please," I try again. "She's your little sister and best friend." It's hard to mask the pleading in my eyes as I roll two carry-on suitcases and have absolutely zero free hands.

"Ugh, fine," Maeve said. Gemma smiles when her big sister grabs her hand again. And I smile, too.

My husband and I disagreed on the number of kids we should have

My husband, an only child, had felt a bit lonely growing up, whereas I'd had a little brother and knew friendship wasn't guaranteed. While I was happy with one, he wanted our daughter to have a sibling. He figured they'd be best friends.

I told him we didn't know if that was the case. They could very well hate each other.

My brother and I are only 18 months apart. I remember being inseparable as little kids — we looked out for each other, spent hours riding bikes together, and would put on elaborate plays for our parents. Today, though? We have a fraught relationship. It was a divide that began when I was in middle school and has continued well into adulthood, thanks to a combination of differing personalities and the competitive atmosphere my parents unintentionally fostered.

I want my kids to be friends

Now that I have two daughters who are three years apart, I've made it a goal that they not only have a strong relationship but are also friends — maybe even best friends.

"You and your brother are best friends?" I once asked a coworker when I was pregnant with my second daughter. She'd told me she was traveling with her brother — something I could never imagine doing. "How did that happen?"

She said that her mom just kept telling them they were best friends, and so that's what they became.

Could it really be that simple? Almost immediately, I started telling my oldest that her new little sister would be her best friend.

As it turned out, it's obviously not that simple. When Gemma was born, Maeve was (understandably) upset that this screaming potato with eyes had come in and taken her mom's attention. It wasn't until the six-month mark that Maeve seemed to finally accept that Gemma wasn't going anywhere. And then, at around eight months, Maeve made Gemma laugh. Which seemed to give Maeve just enough satisfaction to try to make her laugh again.

Their relationship has ups and downs

Almost two years into being siblings, I watch their relationship ebb and flow — sometimes hugging and giggling, other times crying and screaming. The book "Siblings Without Rivalry" told me to set expectations low — they don't need to be friends, the goal should be for them to have a good relationship.

Still, I want them to be friends. I know that I'm projecting the relationship I wish I'd had with my brother onto them. But I can't help it — I don't want them to grow up and not be able to rely on each other. While I know I can't force them to willingly spend time together (they may very well end up like my brother and I), there are some things I can control.

So, for now, I try to plan activities they both like to do together. I occasionally remind them they're built-in best friends. And when something good happens for one of them (like my daughter's holiday recital), I make sure her sister cheers her on from the crowd.

Soon enough, I won't be able to dictate how they spend their time, and it will be up to them to decide their future relationship. Selfishly, I hope that relationship is friendly, and I have to hold on to that.

• I moved to Los Angeles 16 years ago, and then met my husband and had two daughters.
• While our house wasn't affected by the fire, our lives have been.
• Many of my friends lost their homes and I wonder if I need to move for my kids.

"Are you OK?" is the text I've received every day for the last week. And the answer is complicated. Yes, I'm OK in the sense that while I live in Los Angeles, my family and house are safe from the wildfires.

But also, I'm absolutely not OK.

I moved to Los Angeles 16 years ago as an aspiring writer. I lived in West Hollywood, which is where I met my husband. Eventually, we moved to the sleepy suburbs of Burbank, where we've been raising our two daughters.

Moving to the suburbs, for me, meant a sense of security for our family. The roads here are wide, the trees are ancient and enormous, and the schools are top-notch. We're surrounded by other families and local businesses we love. I recently texted a friend, "This feels like our forever home."

The Palisades and Eaton fires, though, have changed not only LA itself, but how I see our future in this city

Last week, my husband and I packed up a suitcase with clothes, birth certificates, and our marriage license as intense winds knocked over those mighty trees on our street. We buckled our daughters into their car seats as ash fell from the sky. We drove out of LA under enormous plumes of smoke to find better air quality. And days later, when the Palisades fire moved East, we could see the glowing flames in the distance, just behind our house.

Like everyone else, I don't know when the LA fires will be contained. What I know is that many of my friends have lost all of their possessions and sense of safety. What I know is that while we are safe, my daughters can't go outside because of the air quality. What I know is that I'm not the only parent in LA right now trying to both process the heartbreak of all this and maintain life as usual for my kids.

I also know that I don't want to do this again

I don't want to live every year wondering if the fires will start closer to our house. What if the home we worked so hard to have goes up in flames? Or worse, what if we can't get out in time?

Los Angeles is where I began my career as a novelist. My first two books are set in Hollywood. My husband has been lucky enough to be a TV writer for shows that film here in Los Angeles. Our community and work is here.

My husband has nervously laughed off my questions of, "Should we stay in LA?" and "No, really, are we staying?"

But to ease my anxiety, I've started looking at listings in North Carolina — not because I'm from there, but because my best friend lives there. Maybe that could be fun?

But then the practical part kicks in. How would we be able to make a living? There are no TV writers rooms, and I'd have to hope that I got a full-time job that could make enough money for all of us. The idea of moving our family somewhere else is currently very tempting, but financially maybe impossible.

And on top of that, I can't imagine another place in the world I'd want to live. I love Los Angeles. My kids love that we can drive to the beach and swim in our backyard pool in the summer. This is our home.

As I made my daughter's bed this morning, I silently said a prayer of thanks for the life we have. I imagine each day will be something like that — both gratitude that we were spared, and the small knowledge that we were very close to losing everything. But next time — if and when there is one — will my family be as lucky as we have been?