Before the triplets were born, I honestly believed Ethan was the kind of husband people dreamed about.
He talked about family constantly.
He told me he wanted a house filled with children, noise, laughter, and chaos. He promised that if we ever had kids, we would raise them together.
“We’re going to be a team,” he used to say.
Whenever I worried about becoming a mother, Ethan would take my hands and reassure me.
“You won’t be doing this alone.”
I believed him.
Then our triplets arrived.
And almost overnight, the man who had promised to be my partner disappeared.
Our babies were born prematurely after a difficult pregnancy, and I spent the first weeks terrified that something would go wrong. When we finally brought them home, I thought the hardest part was behind us.
I was wrong.
The hospital had nurses.
Home had me.
Three newborns meant three times the feeding, three times the diaper changes, three times the crying, and three times the number of tiny bodies that needed to be held when the rest of the world was asleep.