The morning he left, my back cramped while I stood in the driveway. I grabbed the porch railing to keep from falling, but Trevor was already driving away.

I called my mother.

She arrived that afternoon and asked where he was.

“Florida.”

She closed her eyes briefly.

Then she said, “Let’s get you through this.”

The next morning, Trevor sent me a photograph of himself relaxing beneath the sun with a frozen drink.

His caption read:

“Living it up before diaper duty.”

I did not reply.

Two days later, I entered the hospital.

The surgery went well, but the recovery was brutal. When the nurse first helped me stand, I cried before my feet even reached the floor.

My mother remained beside me through every painful step.

Trevor sent one message.

“Everything okay?”

I looked at our daughters sleeping nearby.

“The girls are beautiful,” I answered.

When we returned home, every movement hurt. Walking between the bedroom and nursery felt like climbing a mountain.

One afternoon, I tried lifting both babies. Pain immediately shot through my body.

Mom took one from me.

“You don’t have to prove anything.”

I was not trying to prove anything.

I simply should not have been doing it without my husband.

Trevor was due home the next day.

Instead of calling him, I contacted the man he had not spoken to in nearly twelve years.

His father, Frank.

Trevor rarely discussed him except to say:

“He abandoned my mother before I was born.”

I expected Frank to ignore my call.

He answered.

I told him everything.

After a long silence, he asked for my address.

PART 2

Frank arrived forty minutes later carrying an old duffel bag.

He remained on the porch until I invited him inside.

His eyes moved from my exhausted face to the twins sleeping behind me.

“You shouldn’t be standing for so long,” he said.

It was the first practical thing anyone had said to me all day.