Some nights there was no time. Some nights there was only exhaustion and the shallow sleep of a woman who knew at least one child would wake before dawn.
But often enough.
She began telling the babies stories about their mother long before they could understand words.
“Your mother hated parallel parking,” she told Margot one night.
“Your mother once cried because a rescue dog in a commercial looked lonely,” she told Bridget.
“Your mother believed all furniture looked better after sanding and a terrible decision from Pinterest,” she told Theodore.
By the time the babies turned one, the stories had become ritual.
Three candles on one cake.
Three pairs of hands smashing frosting.
Three highchairs arranged in a row while Jolene took too many photos and Fletch pretended he did not tear up when Theodore clapped for himself.
After everyone left that night, Dorothy sat on the kitchen floor amid wrapping paper and paper plates and looked around the house.
It was not the life she would have chosen for her daughter.
It was not fair. It was not healed. It was not even easy.
But it was alive.