His mother arrived at the hospital with three car seats—and took them away when I refused to lie for him.
I didn't know about the woman yet. At 2:17 on Saturday morning, all I knew was that my contractions were coming too close together and Evan wasn't answering his phone.
""He's dealing with a problem at the distribution center,"" I told the nurse. I'd been repeating that sentence since my sister drove me in. Each time, it sounded less like an explanation and more like something I'd been instructed to say.
At thirty-four weeks, I had a hospital bag by the door and a list of numbers taped to the refrigerator. The babies' room was ready down to three pairs of socks laid across the changing table. None of that made me ready to give birth without the person who'd promised to stand beside me.
My younger sister, Molly, squeezed my hand. ""I'm here. Look at me.""
I did. Then another contraction took everything else out of focus.
My husband missed the birth of our triplets because he was at a hotel with another woman.
