I was eighteen years old when my mother died and left me with three newborn babies.
Triplets.
Three tiny lives who could barely breathe on their own, still wired to machines in the NICU, and suddenly… they were mine.People always ask where our father was.
Trust me—I asked myself that same question for more than a decade.
My father was the kind of man who existed loudly and disappeared quietly. He stayed just long enough to make his presence hurt, then vanished before responsibility could touch him.
