“I know.”
“You’ll need help.”
“I’ll find it.”
“Raising three newborns alone is a lot.”
“You understand this may take time?”
“I’ll do whatever needs doing,” I said. “But nobody’s taking those girls away like they’re unwanted.”
She looked at me for a long second.
“They’re your granddaughters?”
I turned toward the nursery window.
“They’re mine.”
“They’re your granddaughters?”
That was the first time I said it.
Mine.
I had no clue what that word would cost me.
I learned fast.
I learned how to warm three bottles at once. I learned Rose hated being rocked too quickly. May wouldn’t sleep unless someone hummed. June screamed if her socks felt wrong, and heaven help the fool who ignored her.
That was the first time I said it.
***
The first time I tried to braid Rose’s hair for school, she sat on a kitchen stool with her shoulders stiff.
