PART TWO — THE DAY HE DISAPPEARED
The triplets arrived early, as expected.
Amara came first.
Four pounds, three ounces.
Andy came next.
Four pounds even.
Then Ashton.
Three pounds, fourteen ounces.
Tiny.
Perfect.
Terrifying.
They spent several weeks receiving extra medical attention before the doctors were comfortable sending them home.
I was overwhelmed before we even left the hospital.
I barely knew which baby I had fed last.
Every surface seemed covered in bottles, blankets, paperwork, diapers, and instructions.
Still, I was happy.
Exhausted, but happy.
We were finally taking our babies home.
Adam had been strangely quiet that morning.
I noticed it, but I told myself he was tired.
Who wasn’t?
When the nurse brought the discharge paperwork, he kept checking his phone.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“You seem nervous.”
“I’m fine.”
I tried to smile.
“We’re actually doing this.”
He looked at the three infant carriers.
His face changed.
I wish I could describe it better.
It wasn’t anger.
It wasn’t sadness.
It looked like panic.
Pure panic.
“Adam?”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“I just need some air.”
I frowned.
“Now?”
“One minute.”
“We’re supposed to leave.”
“I know. I’ll be right back.”
Those were the last words my husband said to me for twelve years.
I’ll be right back.
Ten minutes passed.
Then twenty.
I called him.
No answer.
Thirty minutes.
The nurse tried not to look concerned.
“Maybe he went to move the car?”
I nodded even though I knew that made no sense.
After forty-five minutes, I called again.
Straight to voicemail.
Then an hour passed.
Then two.
My stomach began hurting from standing.
Amara started crying.
Then Andy.
Then Ashton joined them as though the three had secretly agreed I wasn’t panicking enough.
The nurse helped me sit.
