“You work twelve-hour nb shifts.”
“I know.”
“You have one bedroom.”
“I know.”
“You live on frozen burritos.”
“I KNOW.”
All three babies cried harder.
I rubbed both hands over my face.
Mrs. Coleman softened.
“We can call child services tonight.”
I looked at her.
She continued carefully.
“There are families prepared for situations like this. People with homes. Money. Experience.”
She was right.
Every practical part of my brain knew she was right.
I reached into Sophie’s carrier because she was crying the loudest.
The second I lifted her, she grabbed a fistful of my work shirt.
Then she stopped crying.
Just like that.
Her little head settled against my chest.
Oil stains.
Sweat.
Metal dust.
She didn’t care.
She simply held on.
Brooke began kicking.
Lily made a squeaking noise from the other carrier.
I stared down at Sophie.
“You don’t even know me.”
Mrs. Coleman was quiet.
Sophie opened her eyes.
Melissa’s eyes.
