So when she gave birth to triplets, I stood outside that nursery with tears running into my gray mustache.
Rose came first, quiet and serious. May came next. June came last, already arguing with the world.
Three girls.
My name is Tom.
Three perfect little faces.
I hadn’t felt that much joy since before my wife died.
I hurried back to Lisa’s room, ready to tell her how beautiful they were.
Instead, she was dressed.
Her purse was on her shoulder.
Three perfect little faces.
“Lisa?” I stopped in the doorway. “What are you doing out of bed?”
“I’m leaving, Dad.”
I laughed once.
“You just had three babies. You’re not going anywhere.”
“I can’t do this. I’m leaving.”
“You just had three babies.”
“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.”
