It ended with three crying babies and an empty side of the closet.
PART THREE — THREE BABIES, TWO HANDS, ONE TERRIFIED MOTHER
People often say that when something terrible happens, you discover how strong you are.
I didn’t feel strong.
I felt tired.
There is a difference.
Strength sounds heroic.
What I did wasn’t heroic.
I simply woke up every morning because three babies woke up before me.
There was no other option.
The first year exists in my memory as fragments.
Bottles lined up beside the sink.
Laundry at two in the morning.
Falling asleep sitting upright.
Heating frozen dinners with one baby strapped to my chest while another cried in a swing.
Changing eighteen diapers in one day.
Sometimes more.
Writing feeding times on a dry-erase board because exhaustion had destroyed my short-term memory.
A — 1:20.
Andy — 1:45.
Ashton — 2:05.
Start again.
There were nights
