“I won’t be doing it at all.”
“Look at them first.”
She looked away.
“I already know what they are.”
“They’re your daughters.”
“Look at them first.”
“They’re a mistake I’m fixing right now.”
Before I could stop her, she walked past me.
I followed her into the hall. I said her name once, then twice. She didn’t turn around.
By sunrise, Lisa was gone.
A nurse found me sitting outside the nursery with my elbows on my knees.
Lisa was gone.
“Sir?” she asked gently. “Where’s the mother?”
“She left.”
The nurse’s face changed.
***
Later, a woman explained paperwork and temporary care.
I was 61, widowed, and living on a pension so thin I could see daylight through it.
“Where’s the mother?”
But when she asked if any family could step forward, I stood before she finished.
“I can.”
“Raising three newborns alone is a lot,” she said carefully.
