On their first birthday a year later, the babies were surrounded by everyone who’d helped us survive. Harper and Madison attended virtually. Ellen and George brought a little cake; Rachel decorated with flowers. Naomi gave storybooks the triplets attempted to chew before anybody could begin reading.
After the gathering, I carried them upstairs. Courage drifted off first. Truth resisted sleep fiercely, and Hope held onto my finger. Standing between the cribs, listening to their breaths, I remembered myself outside that hotel lounge, convinced my life had been destroyed.
I wished I could tell that woman how frequently fear would return, how slowly healing would unfold, and how gradually the truth would emerge. Rachel would come. Naomi would listen. Women deceived by Peter would help me. The babies would eventually understand I’d loved them long before anyone debated what to call them.
Morning sunlight stretched across the nursery. I lifted each baby and brought them, one by one, toward the window.
