The twins were already awake that morning; their voices drifting down the hallway as they argued over whose turn it was to hold the blue cup.
They were three years old and stubborn in the way only toddlers could be.
I moved slower than usual, one hand braced against the counter, the other pressed to my belly as the baby rolled.I was tired, sore, and thinking only about keeping the morning calm.
When I opened the fridge, my chest tightened. “I can’t believe we’re out of milk.”
I said it out loud to no one at first, staring into the fridge as if another carton might magically appear if I looked long enoughWarm milk wasn’t a luxury in our house.
It was the only way the twins would eat breakfast without melting down.
I stood there for a moment, hoping maybe I’d missed a carton. I hadn’t.
“Mommy!” Emma called. “Milk first!”
“Warm milk!” Nelly added, as if she were reminding me of a rule I’d invented just to annoy myself.
“I know, babies,” I said, resting one hand on my stomach.
The third unborn baby kicked, sharp and sudden, like punctuation.Being pregnant for the third time, somehow, everything still felt harder than it should have.
