I had raised one child with a wife beside me. Raising three babies alone was another world entirely.
The girls rarely slept at the same time. When Rose stopped crying, May usually began. When May finally settled, June needed feeding.
I learned how to warm three bottles without mixing them up. I learned to change diapers half asleep. I learned to identify each baby by the sound of her cry.
Rose cried loudly, as if she were filing a formal complaint.
May made soft, wounded sounds that broke my heart.
June rarely cried until she was truly miserable. Then she screamed loudly enough to frighten the neighbors.
Mrs. Benson from across the street began bringing casseroles. My old friend Walter repaired the leaking roof for the cost of materials. A retired nurse from church taught me how to bathe three babies safely.
People helped, but the responsibility remained mine.
There were nights when I sat in the dark with one baby against my chest and another sleeping beside me in a basket, wondering whether love alone could possibly be enough.
Then one of them would curl her tiny hand around my finger.
And I would know I had to keep going.
I sold Margaret’s old car and bought a used van.
I took a part-time job repairing furniture in a workshop behind a local antique store. I had always been good with my hands, and the owner allowed me to work flexible hours.
Every dollar had a destination before it reached my wallet.
Milk.
Diapers.
Medicine.
Electricity.
Shoes.
School supplies.
I cut my own hair. I wore shirts until the collars frayed. I learned which grocery store marked down bread on Tuesday evenings.
But the girls never went hungry.
They never went to bed wondering whether they were loved.
For illustrative purposes only
“Grandpa, Are We Poor?”
The triplets grew into three very different little people.
Rose was bold and organized. At six, she created a household schedule because she believed I was “forgetful.”
May was gentle and artistic. She drew flowers on every scrap of paper she could find, including several utility bills.
June was curious about everything. She once took apart our toaster because she wanted to know “where the heat lived.”
When they were seven, May asked me a question that stayed in my heart for years.
We were at a department store buying winter coats. She had been staring at a red coat with shiny buttons, but when she saw the price, she quietly returned it to the rack.
She selected a plain brown coat from the clearance section.
On the way home, she asked, “Grandpa, are we poor?”
I tightened my hands around the steering wheel.
Children notice more than adults think.
“We don’t have as much money as some families,” I said carefully.
May looked down at the paper bag in her lap.
“Is that what poor means?”
“Sometimes.”
She was quiet for a moment.
Then she asked, “Are we unhappy?”
“No.”
“Do we have food?”
“Yes.”
“A house?”
“Yes.”
“And each other?”
I looked at her in the rearview mirror.
“Always.”
May smiled.
“Then maybe we’re only a little poor.”
That night, I found a drawing on my pillow.
It showed four stick figures standing in front of our little house. Above us, May had drawn a giant yellow sun.
At the bottom, in uneven handwriting, she had written:
WE HAVE ENOUGH.
I kept that picture in my wallet for the next thirteen years.
The Question We Couldn’t Avoid
As the girls grew older, they began asking about Lisa.
At first, I gave them simple answers.
“Your mother wasn’t ready to raise children.”
Then came harder questions.
“Did she love us?”
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