Carter held the package up.
“There she is!”
My face burned.
“Put that down.”
He grinned.
“Come on, Elena.”
“Put it down.”
“I’m just showing the guys what married life looks like after kids.”
A couple of men laughed again.
Not as loudly this time.
I stared at Carter.
He had found the package in the laundry room cabinet.
I knew because I had deliberately kept it there instead of in our bathroom.
Not because I was ashamed of using it.
Because I had learned months earlier that if Carter saw anything related to my postpartum recovery, there was a good chance he would make a comment.
The pelvic-floor therapy bands.
“Workout toys for your lady parts.”
The scar cream.
“You’re still worried about that?”
The support garment my doctor recommended.
“Grandma underwear.”
Every comment came with the same defense.
Relax.
It’s a joke.
You used to have a sense of humor.
That night, surrounded by his friends, Carter decided to go further.
He pulled one pair halfway out of the package.
“Seriously, look at these things.”
I stopped breathing for a moment.
“Carter.”
He grinned toward the room.
“Apparently this is what happens after you have triplets.”
Someone muttered:
“Dude.”
But Carter was enjoying himself.
“Elena used to own actual lingerie.”
Another laugh.
“Now I open a cabinet and find these.”
My throat tightened.
I wanted to disappear.
Instead, I said:
“They’re medical.”
Carter waved one hand.
“Oh, please.”
“I use them because my doctor told me to while I finish pelvic-floor treatment.”
He looked at his friends.
“See?”
“Medical.”
He exaggerated the word.
That was when Adrian stood.
And everything changed.
Eleven months earlier, I had delivered three babies in a hospital operating room after a pregnancy that had pushed my body far beyond anything I understood before living through it.
Carter and I had wanted children.
Very much.
We had been married five years when I became pregnant.
At the first ultrasound, the technician became unusually quiet.
Then she said:
“I’m seeing three.”
Carter laughed because he thought she was joking.
She wasn’t.
Triplets.
Three heartbeats.
Three cribs.
Three car seats.
Three people developing inside a body that had previously carried none.
The pregnancy became high-risk almost immediately.
By twenty-six weeks, I was barely sleeping.
By thirty weeks, walking from our bedroom to the kitchen felt like a workout.
At thirty-three weeks, I was admitted to the hospital.
The babies arrived earlier than planned after my blood pressure spiked and one of the boys began showing signs of distress.
