by someone who hated fathers.
He painted one wall pale green.
We argued about names.
We laughed about never sleeping again.
At night, he would place both hands on my stomach and wait for movement.
Sometimes all three babies seemed active at once.
Adam would laugh.
“They’re already fighting for attention.”
We eventually chose their names.
Amara.
Andrew, whom we planned to call Andy.
And Ashton.
I pictured Adam teaching the boys to ride bikes.
I pictured Amara wrapping him around her little finger.
I pictured Christmas mornings and scraped knees and school plays.
I pictured us exhausted but happy.
What I never pictured was going home without him.
PART TWO — THE DAY HE DISAPPEARED
The triplets arrived early, as expected.
Amara came first.
Four pounds, three ounces.
Andy came next.
Four pounds even.
Then Ashton.
Three pounds, fourteen ounces.
Tiny.
Perfect.
Terrifying.
They spent several
