Temporary arrangements.
Background checks.
Cut dates.
One woman gently asked, “Aaron, do you understand what he will ask to raise three babies?”
Behind her, Grace spit out formula for my shirt.
Emma started crying.
Sophie joined for solidarity.
I looked at the woman.
“They have me.”
Eventually, the temporary became permanent.
The brother became a tutor.
The guardian became a legal father.
And somehow I became a father.
***
A baby snuggled against my chest while feeding another.
Bottles lined up by initials.
Tables of drugs glued to the refrigerator every time someone got sick because the triplets apparently believed that germs were communal property.
The money stretched out until I screamed.
Dating became complicated.
“Why do you have three children?”
“They’re technically my sisters,” I said.
That phrase never improved anything.
A woman endured three dates before asking, “And when do you get your own life back?”
I went home that night.
