Then one of them moved.
I stopped halfway down the hallway.
There were three infant carriers lined up against the nb wall.
Three.
A pink diaper bag had been wedged between them.
On top of it sat an envelope with my name written across the front.
MASON.
I recognized the handwriting immediately.
My older brother, Eric.
My stomach turned.
“Eric?”
I looked down the hallway.
Nothing.
I rushed toward the carriers.
Inside were his six-month-old triplet daughters.
Lily.
Brooke.
And Sophie.
Their mother, Melissa, had died thirteen days earlier from complications following a sudden infection.
The funeral had barely ended.
Eric had looked destroyed during the service.
I remembered standing beside him near the cemetery parking lot while he stared at the ground.
“I don’t know how to do this without her,” he had whispered.
I had put my hand on his shoulder.
“You don’t have to know tonight.”
Apparently, thirteen days had been enough for him to decide.
My hands were already shaking when I opened the envelope.
