The babies came early.
Lily weighed a little over three pounds. Grace was slightly smaller. Sophie was so tiny that when I first saw her beneath the hospital lights, surrounded by wires and monitors, I was afraid to breathe.
I called Daniel eleven times.
He didn’t answer.
Finally, I sent him photographs.
“Your daughters are here,” I wrote. “They’re early, but the doctors are taking good care of them. Please call me.”
Two hours later, his response appeared.
“CUTE.”
That was all.
No questions.
No call.
No “Are you okay?”
No “Tell them Daddy loves them.”
Just one word.
CUTE.
I stared at it until the letters blurred.
That night, Rachel sat beside my hospital bed and held my hand while I cried.
“You don’t have to defend him anymore,” she said gently.
“I’m not defending him.”
“You are. Every time he hurts you, you invent a reason that makes him sound less cruel.”
Her words stayed with me.
Over the following weeks, my daughters slowly grew stronger. I spent hours beside their hospital beds, whispering promises through the openings of their incubators.
I promised I would protect them.
