Elowen had brought the triplets to visit twice during the summer.
Mrs. Fenwick had spent both visits leaning over their stroller, praising their eyelashes and demanding to know which girl was which.
Elowen had explained their names and birth weights with the seriousness of a military briefing.
Now Mrs. Fenwick knelt beside the car seats.
“You cannot raise three babies alone.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know the first thing about babies.”
“I know.”
“You once tried to warm soup in a metal bowl inside the microwave.”
“That happened one time.”
“It happened twice.”
The smallest baby began moving her hands.
One tiny fist opened and closed, searching.
I lowered myself onto the porch boards.
Her fingers closed around my index finger.
The grip was warm and surprisingly strong for a six-month-old child.
I stopped breathing.
“That one is Maisie,” Mrs. Fenwick said quietly. “Elowen said the smallest would always be Maisie.”
“Maisie.”
The baby continued holding my finger.
She did not know that I had no savings.
She did not know that her father had disappeared.
She did not know that I had never planned to become responsible for anyone except myself.
She only knew that someone was beside her.
Mrs. Fenwick rested a hand on my shoulder.
“We’ll call family services in the morning. There are couples waiting for children. People with nurseries, proper jobs, and experience.”
I opened my mouth to agree.
That was the sensible answer.
The girls deserved more than a cramped apartment above a shop.
They deserved two prepared parents, three proper cribs, and a bank account that did not frighten its owner.
“Okay,” I whispered.
But I was looking at Maisie.
Her fingers tightened.
“Okay,” I said again. “I’ve got you.”
Mrs. Fenwick became very still.
“You mean until morning?”
I looked at the three car seats.
“No.”
“Reid.”
“I can’t let strangers take them tonight.”
“Tonight is how it starts.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
She looked at me for a long moment.
Then she picked up the diaper bag.
“Fine. I’ll make bottles while you carry them inside.”
I brought the girls into my apartment one at a time.
Somewhere between the second trip and the third, I stopped thinking of them as Callan’s children.
I was still Uncle Reid.
But I had already begun becoming something else.
Mrs. Fenwick taught me how to warm a bottle.
She taught me to test the milk against my wrist and to support a baby’s head.
She changed the first diaper while I watched with the concentration of a man defusing an explosive.
The girls were named Liora, Carys, and Maisie.
Liora was the oldest by eleven minutes.
Carys arrived next.
Maisie was last and smallest.
At three in the morning, all three began crying at once.
Mrs. Fenwick stood in the middle of my apartment with one baby against her shoulder.
