Carys arrived next.
Maisie was last and smallest.
At three in the morning, all three began crying at once.
Mrs. Fenwick stood in the middle of my apartment with one baby against her shoulder.
I held the other two badly.
“This is impossible,” I said.
“Yes.”
“I cannot do this.”
“Probably not.”
I stared at her.
“That isn’t helpful.”
“You don’t need reassurance. You need another bottle.”
By sunrise, my apartment looked as though a storm had passed through it.
Blankets covered the floor.
Three bottles stood beside the sink.
I had formula on my shirt.
Maisie was asleep against my chest.
Family services arrived that afternoon.
A caseworker named Marla Dane explained that Callan had abandoned his children and would be reported missing.
Temporary placement could be arranged immediately.
The triplets might be placed together if a suitable home could be found, but there were no guarantees.
“Together?” I asked.
