Adoption paperwork became my new contract, a promise forged in desperation.
By night I learned the rhythm of three rattling bottles, the soft sighs of a newborn who didn’t yet know my name.
I promised myself I would be the parent they never got.
The First Years of Survival
The first months were a blur of midnight feedings, my hands trembling as I coaxed milk from a tired breast.
Night shifts at the warehouse meant I was home before dawn, the girls curled like sleeping foxes in their cribs.
Continue on the next page:
