Two doors down, three tiny cries rose from the nursery—Nora, Piper, and Wren, each no older than three months.
“Mom, what are you doing?” I shouted, my voice cracking.
She didn’t look at me. “I’ve spent my whole life raising a child,” she hissed. “I’m not starting over with three more.”
I lunged for the door, pleading, “Just one day. Give them—give us—something.”
She paused, the hallway lights flickering over her tired face, then slipped out without a word.
There was no aunt, no cousin, no backup plan—just me and three frantic infants.
The offer in Chicago turned to ash; I tore the acceptance letter into strips and tossed it into the trash.
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