That nearly broke me.
I thought about my brother.
About those three girls waking up tomorrow in a strange foster home.
Maybe together.
Maybe not.
I had no idea.
And I suddenly realized I couldn’t do it.
I couldn’t put them in a car and watch someone drive them away.
“Mrs. Coleman?”
“Yes?”
“How do you make formula?”
She closed her eyes.
“Oh, Mason.”
“I’m serious.”
“You have no idea what you’re doing.”
“Clearly.”
She studied me for several seconds.
Then she rolled up the sleeves of her robe.
“Go downstairs and get the clean towels from my dryer.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re about to discover what happens when three babies need changing at the exact same time.”
That was how it started.
Not with some heroic promise.
Not with music playing in the background.
Not because I was brave.
I was terrified.
But that night, I carried three infant carriers into my tiny apartment.
And somehow, none of them ever left.
The first year nearly killed me.
There is no polite way to say it.
I was awful at being a parent.
I once drove halfway to work before realizing I had put Brooke’s shoes on Lily and Lily’s jacket on Sophie.
I learned that babies could throw up farther than seemed biologically possible.
I learned that silence was more dangerous than crying.
I learned that one child getting sick meant all three would be sick within forty-eight hours.
And I learned that sleep was apparently something I had experienced in a previous lifetime.
Mrs. Coleman saved me more times than I can count.
