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.When I was a teenager, I was his favorite target.
I wore black hoodies, painted my nails, listened to music he didn’t understand. That made me entertainment.
“What are you supposed to be?” he once laughed, pointing at me. “A goth?”
I didn’t answer.
“Not a son,” he added, grinning. “More like a shadow.”
