I immediately thought something was wrong.
“What is it?” I asked.
She turned the monitor slightly.
“There’s Baby A.”
She moved the cursor.
“And Baby B.”
Adam squeezed my hand.
My heart started racing.
“Twins?” I whispered.
The technician laughed softly.
“And Baby C.”
I stared at her.
“Excuse me?”
“Triplets.”
I honestly thought I had misheard her.
Three babies.
Three cribs.
Three car seats.
Three college funds.
Three everything.
I looked at Adam.
His face had gone pale.
Then he turned toward me, squeezed my hand harder, and smiled.
“We can do this.”
“Three babies, Adam.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“We’ll figure it out.”
He leaned over and kissed my forehead.
“I’ve got you, Allison.”
I wanted to believe him.
So I did.
For the next several months, we planned our lives around three tiny people we had never met.
We converted our second bedroom into a nursery.
Adam assembled three cribs while complaining that every instruction manual had clearly been written by someone who hated fathers.
He painted one wall pale green.
We argued about names.
We laughed about never sleeping again.
At night, he would place both hands on my stomach and wait for movement.
Sometimes all three babies seemed active at once.
Adam would laugh.
“They’re already fighting for attention.”
We eventually chose their names.
Amara.
Andrew, whom we planned to call Andy.
And Ashton.
I pictured Adam teaching the boys to ride bikes.
I pictured Amara wrapping him around her little finger.
I pictured Christmas mornings and scraped knees and school plays.
I pictured us exhausted but happy.
What I never pictured was going home without him.
