“You can’t raise three babies alone,” my neighbor told me, not unkindly.
She was probably right. But the smallest one wrapped her whole fist around my finger before I ever picked up the phone to call anyone else.
So I stayed. Twenty-two years of packed lunches and badly braided hair.
Double shifts. Fevers in the middle of the night. Science fairs. Broken hearts.
I missed weddings. Vacations. Any real chance at a family of my own. Nobody ever asked that of me.
I just understood, somewhere early on, that somebody had to stay, and it was going to be me.
