Her sisters joined her.
Within seconds, the hallway was filled with three screaming babies nb and one grown man having the first panic attack of his life.
My downstairs neighbor, Mrs. Coleman, opened her door.
She was nearly seventy and had appointed herself unofficial manager of every person’s business in the building.
“Mason?”
She came upstairs.
Then she saw the carriers.
Her eyes widened.
“Good Lord.”
“They’re Eric’s.”
“I know whose babies they are. Where is he?”
I handed her the note.
She read it once.
Her mouth tightened.
“That coward.”
I didn’t answer.
Because at that moment, I was too angry to defend him and too devastated to agree with her.
Mrs. Coleman looked at me.
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mason, you’ve never even babysat one baby.”
“I know.”
“There are three.”
“I can count, Mrs. Coleman.”
She ignored that.
