No custody battle. No visits. Just a note on the refrigerator, held beneath a souvenir magnet.
« Mark, I’m sorry. Daniel makes me feel alive. You’ll manage. You always d0. » » » » »
You’ll manage.
Three babies. Three cribs. Three fevers at once.
I managed.
I learned to braid hair before sunrise.
I sewed costumes badly and packed lunches better.
I sat through three parent-teacher conferences on the same night and attended every mother-daughter breakfast because Emma, Sophie, and Claire insisted I belonged there.
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