I was thinking she was probably right.
“That’s June,” Mrs. Hunter said softly. “Patricia made sure we’d know how to tell them apart. Said the smallest one would always be June.”
“June,” I repeated, saying the name slowly as though I needed to make sure my mouth still worked.
Baby June continued holding on. She didn’t know I was broke, that I’d never changed a diaper, or that her father had walked away from them. She only knew that someone was there.
“I’ll call social services in the morning,” my neighbor said gently. “There are good families, Noah. Ready people.” Baby June kept holding on.
I opened my mouth to agree. I truly did.
“Okay,” I whispered instead, my eyes still on June. “Okay. Okay, I’ve got you.”
Mrs. Hunter fell silent. Once again, the porch light flickered.
I carried each baby inside separately, and somewhere between the second trip and the third, I stopped being Uncle Noah and became something I didn’t yet have a name for.
