When we learned I was carrying triplets, he cried harder than I did.
The ultrasound technician pointed toward three tiny movements on the screen.
Callum covered his mouth.
“Three?”
“Three,” the technician confirmed.
He took my hand.
“We are going to be a team, Alina.”
He repeated the promise all the way home.
“Every feeding. Every diaper. Every impossible night. You will never do this alone.”
I believed him.
During my seventh month of pregnancy, our friends held a barbecue at the fictional lakeside community of Alderwick Cove.
Callum’s closest friends, Dean and Oliver, handed him a gift bag.
Inside was a black shirt printed with bold white letters:
WORLD’S MOST EXHAUSTED FATHER
Everyone laughed.
Callum pulled it over his head and posed with both hands beneath my stomach.
“I think I’m the person who will be exhausted,” I said from my chair.
He pointed toward himself dramatically.
“Diapers. Bottles. Laundry. Night feedings. I have all of it.”
Dean raised his drink.
“Remember this speech when the babies arrive.”
I took a photograph.
“I am saving it.”
Callum leaned down and kissed my forehead.
“Save it. I’ll prove every word.”
Then Maisie, Miles, and Mara arrived.
The C-section left me feeling as though every part of my body had been pulled apart and sewn together too tightly.
Sitting upright hurt.
Laughing hurt.
Coughing felt impossible.
Even turning in bed required careful planning.
Our first night home, all three babies began crying within minutes of one another.
Maisie’s bassinet stood closest to me.
I reached toward her and gasped as pain tore across my abdomen.
“Callum, can you bring her to me?”
He opened one eye.
“I just fell asleep.”
“I can’t lift her from here.”
He sighed.
Then he got out of bed, carried Maisie over, and placed her in my arms.
“Thank you.”
Callum returned immediately to his pillow.
“Miles needs a bottle,” I whispered.
“You are already awake.”
I stared at him.
“So are you.”
“I have work tomorrow.”
I looked at the three bassinets beside our bed.
“And I have three babies who cannot survive without us.”
He turned toward the wall.
On the third night, Callum entered the bedroom carrying his pillow and telephone charger.
Mara was against my shoulder.
Milk ran down Miles’s chin.
Maisie was crying again.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m moving into the spare room.”
“For tonight?”
“Until they begin sleeping through the night.”
“They are newborns.”
“I need eight hours if I’m expected to function at work.”
“I need more than forty minutes if I’m expected to function here.”
“You don’t attend meetings.”
I looked at him.
“No. I only keep three human beings alive.”
Callum rubbed his face.
“Why do you always make me feel guilty?”
“I thought guilt usually came after doing something wrong.”
His mouth tightened.
“I’m not arguing about this.”
He left.
During the day, Callum counted every small task he completed.
“I changed two diapers,” he announced one afternoon.
I looked at the care chart taped beside the refrigerator.
“There have been twenty-three.”
“You do not need to keep score.”
“I began writing everything down because I no longer remember what hour it is.”
“You always make it sound like I do nothing.”
I stood at the sink washing bottles while rocking Miles’s carrier with one foot.
