Brian refused to answer my calls for days. When he finally picked up, his tone was cold. “If you want to play savior, go ahead. I’m not part of it.” Then he hung up.
After the funeral, Liam named the twins Elise and Noah. He set up a small nursery in his room, painting the old crib we found at a thrift store and using his savings to buy bottles and diapers. I told him he was giving up too much, but he only said, “They’re family.”
The first month was brutal. Neither of us slept more than two hours at a time. Liam woke for every feeding, every cry. Sometimes I would find him sitting on the floor, one baby in each arm, whispering stories to calm them. He had always been quiet, but now there was something fierce in his love, something that reminded me of the child I once held through sleepless nights after Brian’s betrayals.
Then one evening, disaster struck again. Elise began crying uncontrollably, her skin burning with fever. We rushed her back to Harborview, hearts pounding. The doctors admitted her immediately. Hours later, a pediatric cardiologist told us she had a congenital heart defect that required surgery.