Chapter 17
A year after the maternity suite, the triplets celebrated their first birthday at Sofia’s home.
Three highchairs stood beside one another.
Not one missing.
Not one assigned elsewhere.
Three.
Matteo smashed cake into his own hair.
Emma cried because Rose stole her spoon.
Rose ate frosting from the tray with both hands.
Chaos.
Perfect.
Victor attended for one hour.
Bianca longer.
Marianne came with Nicholas and his family.
Julian looked at his twin across the room sometimes like he still could not believe another version of his own face had existed for thirty-six years without him.
That would take time.
Good.
Not everything needed a fast ending.
Sofia sat beside me while the babies destroyed the cake.
“You okay?” I asked.
She smiled.
“Ask me after bedtime.”
Fair.
Across the room Bianca held a gift but waited until Sofia nodded before approaching the highchairs.
Progress.
Victor remained farther back.
Also progress.
Then Matteo reached one hand toward him.
Victor froze.
He looked at Sofia.
Did not move.
Sofia considered.
Then nodded once.
Victor walked closer.
Not grandfather by right.
Grandfather by relationship being rebuilt.
He touched Matteo’s tiny hand.
Nothing dramatic happened.
The baby immediately became more interested in cake.
Good.
Children should not have to perform adults’ redemption.
I looked at the three highchairs.
A year earlier, one of these children had been marked with a blue ribbon before he had even learned to open his eyes.
Adults had assigned him a new mother, a new house, a purpose.
Heal Bianca.
Strengthen a branch.
Repeat a tradition.
Prove the family could survive dividing children.
All before he had a voice.
That was what frightened me most in the end.
Not Victor’s slap-worthy arrogance.
Not Julian moving the call button.
Not even the infant carrier waiting downstairs.
It was how many adults had become comfortable speaking about a newborn as though love gave them ownership.
Sofia leaned against my shoulder.
The triplets screamed over cake.
Julian laughed while trying to clean them.
Marianne watched her two grown sons speak together.
Bianca stood without reaching for what was not hers.
Victor waited to be invited.
Messy.
Incomplete.
Alive.
I looked at my daughter.
“No one gets divided again.”
Sofia looked at me.
“Don’t turn it into a family slogan.”
I almost laughed.
“Why?”
“Because families like ours eventually weaponize slogans.”
Fair.
So I said nothing else.
Three babies remained in three chairs.
May you like
Exactly where their mother wanted them.
And for once, that was enough.
