the only safe home they had left.
That afternoon, I called an attorney.
Then their pediatrician.
Then my employer.
At fifty-six years old, while still mourning my son, I became a mother all over again.
Part 2 — Raising the Children She Left Behind
The legal part took months.
The parenting started immediately.
There was no graceful transition.
No time to prepare.
No stack of parenting books beside my bed.
There were simply two babies who needed to eat every few hours.
Jennifer couldn’t tolerate one brand of formula, while Lizzie would fall asleep only if I hummed the same ridiculous tune my son had loved as a little boy.
For months, I slept in fragments.
Two hours here.
Forty minutes there.
Sometimes I woke convinced I had heard my son’s key turning in the front door.
Then one of the babies would cry, and reality would return.
Eventually, I received
