Our daughters, Ada and June, arrived seven minutes apart. Our son, Theo, followed eleven minutes later. I heard three cries. I got to touch three tiny cheeks before the neonatal team took them for monitoring. The doctor explained what to expect in a steady voice. They were breathing on their own, and the nurses would watch their feeding and temperature closely.
I held on to that. Three cries. Three warm cheeks. Three babies getting the care they needed.
On Thursday, Evan and I had practiced the drive to the hospital. He'd counted the traffic lights and made a joke about leaving for the delivery room like we were catching a flight. We'd parked outside the entrance so he could show me where he'd drop me off. I remembered how proud he looked opening the passenger door. When the real drive came, Molly opened it instead, one hand still holding her own car keys because she had left her apartment so fast she hadn't picked up a coat.
I told myself Evan could still arrive. Even after the doctor said the babies were coming now, part of me listened for his shoes in the hall. Molly did everything I'd asked him to do: she repeated the babies' names, reminded the staff about the question I wanted to ask, and kept her face close to mine when I was afraid. Once it was over, she called our aunt to say we were safe. I watched her write down what the doctor said about feeding so I wouldn't have to hold it all in my head.
My husband missed the birth of our triplets because he was at a hotel with another woman.
