his father.
About the weeks before his death.
About how scared he had become when he saw her crumble under three newborns and with almost no sleep.
Then I came to a sentence that made me look up.
“Your father had already made arrangements in case I couldn’t handle the girls on my own.”
“What arrangements?”
Emma’s eyes filled with tears.
“Keep reading.”
I did it.
Dad had spoken privately with a couple we had known for years.
Older than him.
Married.
People who remembered childhood Christmas parties.
They had wanted to have children for a long time.
They couldn’t have any.
And according to Mom, they loved the triplets.
After Dad died, Mom told them she had decided to keep the girls herself. She never told them she planned to leave.
My hands began to tremble.
The next paragraph was worse.
“After your father died, I was drowning. Jobless
