“You’re scared. That’s all. Every new mother is scared.”
“I’m not scared,” she said. “I’m done.”
The word hit me like a fist.
“Done? They haven’t even opened their eyes yet.”
“Three girls will ruin my life. I’m 22. I still have a chance to marry well.”
“I’m not scared.”
I stared at her.
“They’re not a storm, Lisa. They’re babies.”
“Easy for you to say. You already had your life.”
“My life was raising you.”
“And look how that turned out.”
I swallowed that because those babies needed me more than my pride did.
“They’re not a storm, Lisa.”
“I’ll help you,” I said. “You won’t be alone.”
“I won’t be doing it at all.”
“Look at them first.”
She looked away.
“I already know what they are.”
“They’re your daughters.”
“Look at them first.”
“They’re a mistake I’m fixing right now.”
Before I could stop her, she walked past me.
I followed her into the hall. I said her name once, then twice. She didn’t turn around.
By sunrise, Lisa was gone.
A nurse found me sitting outside the nursery with my elbows on my knees.
Lisa was gone.
“Sir?” she asked gently. “Where’s the mother?”
“She left.”
The nurse’s face changed.
***
Later, a woman explained paperwork and temporary care.
I was 61, widowed, and living on a pension so thin I could see daylight through it.
“Where’s the mother?”
But when she asked if any family could step forward, I stood before she finished.
“I can.”
“Raising three newborns alone is a lot,” she said carefully.
“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.
