I brought home a set of triplets, and my husband got so spooked he bolted he didnt even pop round the delivery ward to see me.
Triplets? Youre practically a heroine, Valerie Collins! the midwife cooed. All three are fine a boy and two girls! Thats a miracle!
Im just a mum, I laughed, the haze of exhaustion still clinging to me, trying to swallow the whirlwind of the last eighteen hours.
It was a miracle, but also a source of nerves. The first few days in the maternity ward floated by like a fog, caught between sheer physical collapse and a brandnew, boundless joy.
I lay on the stiff hospital cot, gathering whatever strength I could after the arduous delivery, picturing the moment Frank would see our little ones for the first time.
In my mind Harry already had his dark eyes, and the girlsdarkhaired like mewere already smiling. The doctors promised to bring the babies over as soon as the routine checks were done.
I waited for Frank the next morning but he never turned up. A nurse called the post office to ask if a note had been left maybe the line was busy? The farmhands were still out on the fields for the third day, perhaps that delayed him.
On the third day a neighbour slipped me a parcel: a jar of strawberry compote, a tray of cheese scones, fresh nappies. It wasnt his delivery, though it was the neighbours kindness.
On a scrap of paper shed scrawled: Franks off the rails again, Val. We reckon Granddad George will whisk you away. Dont worry, well have your back. Signed: Tara, Vera, Zoe.
A cold shiver ran through me, a sticky fear crawling under my skin.
Just five days earlier I was an ordinary country woman, waiting for her first child. Now I was a mother of three, a fathertobe who didnt even want to look at them. The feeling of betrayal was squeezing my chest like a tootight corset.
From the corridor came the thud of heavy boots.
Valerie, a nurse peeked in, Granddad George is on his way to collect you. He says hes in the old tractor! She pointed toward the side door by the pantry.
The nurse helped me swaddle the babies, her hands moving with practiced speed, careful kindness, folding the tiny bundles into soft blankets.
Here you go, she handed me a little bundle. This is your eldest daughter.
I held Evelyn in my arms the quiet one of the three, who had arrived two minutes before her sister.
The other girl I named Blythe, hoping shed grow up tough enough for anything. And the boy, of course, was Harry, after my grandfather.
We shuffled out onto the porch, each step a muted throb in my weary body.
Granddad George stood beside the rustcovered tractor, a stubborn old mare snorting at his heels. Spotting us, he tossed a cigarette butt into the snow.
Well then, love? Off we go, he said, taking two of the babies from the nurses hands and slipping them into warm blankets. Well get you home.
The ride was silent. Snow fell heavier, but the road to the village was compacted, and the wagon glided gently between the drifts.
George nudged the reins now and then, muttering to himself. We passed the collective farms, a strip of woodland, crossed a little footbridge, and finally the roof of our cottage appeared on the horizon.
Just a bit longer, he grumbled, helping me pull my feet onto the porch.
The children stayed in the wagon while I hesitated to step inside I was terrified of leaving even a moment alone. But the fire needed feeding.
George lifted the cribs, my hands trembling from fatigue and worry. He was the first through the doorway; I followed, heart pounding.
Inside, Frank was there, surrounded by an open suitcase and a jumble of belongings. He looked up at me as if I were a stranger.
Whats this? my voice came out hoarse.
I wasnt expecting triplets, he muttered, his eyes skimming past me. Youll manage on your own. Im sorry.
George set the cribs by the hearth, a vein bulging in his neck like a rope.
Youve gone off the deep end, Frank? Abandoning three kids and a wife? his voice boomed like a summer thunderclap.
Mind your own business, old man! Frank snapped, turning back to his mess.
Nothing left in your conscience! George grabbed his shoulder, but Frank slipped free, hauling his suitcase away.
Frank, I stepped forward, look at them at least
He glanced at the cribs, then silently made his way to the door, stepped out into the snowstorm and vanished as quickly as hed arrived, as if hed never been there at all.
I sank onto the floor, feeling something inside me go cold. I breathed, but an emptiness settled in my chest.
The first year was a trial by fire the kind you wouldnt wish on your worst enemy.
At dawn I was up; at midnight I was finally in bed. Nappies, bodices, bottles, teats life turned into an endless loop of chores. One fed, the next cried
After each washcycle I was back at square one. My hands cracked from endless laundering, my fingers sprouted callouses from twisting damp cloths.
We survived on sheer luck. Every morning something new appeared on the doorstep a jug of milk, a sack of oats, a bundle of firewood. The village folk helped in their quiet, wordless way.
Tara was the most frequent visitor. She taught me how to wash the babies, how to make a proper formula when my own milk ran low.
Hang in there, Val, shed say, deftly swaddling Harry. In this village nobody gets left behind. Franks a fool, youre a trooper. Gods given you a handful of blessings.
Granddad George dropped by each evening, checking the stove and the roof for leaks.
One time he gathered a few lads to repair the barn, replace rotten floorboards, and seal the windows.
When the first frosts hit, Vera brought three pairs of woolly socks tiny ones for each size. The children grew not by days but by hours, despite the meagre rations and the harsh conditions.
Spring brought smiles. Evelyn was serene, even as a newborn she seemed to gaze at the world with an old souls understanding.
Blythe, on the other hand, was loud and demanding, often drawing attention with a highpitched wail. Harry was restless and curious; the moment he learned to roll over he set off exploring everything in sight.
That summer I learned to live anew. I strapped one baby to a carrier on my back, fastened the other two to a makeshift pushcart, and trudged to the garden between feeds, washes, and fleeting naps.
Frank never turned up. Occasionally I heard rumors of him sighted in the next village a greasy, unshaven man with a glazed stare.
I stopped being angry at him. I had no energy left to stew. All that remained was love for my children and a fight for each new sunrise.
By the fifth winter the rhythm of life began to settle. The kids grew a little more independent, helped each other, started playing together, then eventually went off to the local nursery. I found parttime work at the village library enough to keep the lights on. Each evening Id bring home a book and read it to the children before bed.
Winter brought a new locksmith, Andy Whitaker a tall man with a silverstreaked beard, wrinkles around his eyes. He looked about forty, but his springy step made him seem decades younger. He first entered the library in February, when a blizzard was howling outside.
Good afternoon, he rasped. Got anything interesting for an evening read? Maybe Dumas?
I handed him a wellworn copy of *The Three Musketeers*. He thanked me and left. The next day he returned with a wooden toy horse.
This is for your little ones, he said, handing over the carved horse. Ive got a knack for woodworking.
From then on he became a regular swapping books, bringing new toys.
Harry took to him instantly, darting over, grabbing his hand, dragging him toward his treasures. The girls were more cautious, but eventually they joined in.
In April, as the snow melted, Andy brought a sack of potatoes.
Here you go, he said simply. Good seed, just right for planting.
I felt a twinge of awkwardness after Franks betrayal I wasnt used to men offering help.
Thanks, but I can manage I began.
He shrugged. Everyone knows how strong you are. Sometimes accepting help is a kind of strength too.
Just then Harry burst in with a stick in hand.
Uncle Andy! Look, a sword! Shall we make a real one?
Of course! Andy grinned, sitting down. And well craft something nice for your sisters too.
They trotted off to the shed, chattering about future projects. I watched them, and for the first time in ages I felt a warm glow in my chest.
Summer saw Andy visiting more often. He helped in the garden, patched the fence, spent hours with the children.
Evelyn and Blythe shed their shy shells, confiding secrets to him. With Andy around, the house felt calmer less chaos, fewer frantic words.
One September evening, the children asleep, we sat on the porch. Above us the stars glittered, a distant chorus of dogs barked.
Val, Andy said softly, let me be more than a passing guest. I love your children as if they were my own.
His eyes shone with sincerity, not a hint of doubt.
I sat silent, watching the heavens. Sometimes fate snatches something away to give back something far richer. All you have to do is wait.
Fifteen years have slipped by since those three bundles arrived, like a single breath. Our yard has transformed a sturdy fence, a new roof, a solid outbuilding with a chicken coop. Andy built a veranda with large windows.
Now every evening we gather there, all together. Harry, now a lanky teenager, has outgrown Andys age. His hands are calloused from a summer spent in the village forge.
Evelyn is preparing for a teaching diploma, Blythe is a creative whirlwind, filling notebooks with poems.
I work fulltime at the library. The children address me respectfully: Mrs. Valerie Collins. Occasionally I stand in for teachers, leading literature classes, sharing thoughts on life, choices, and inner strength.
Andy has become a jackofalltrades. He opened a workshop, fixing everything from locks to engines.
Harry spends hours beside him, absorbing skills. Hes long called Andy dad, while the girls simply say our Andy.
On the day of Blythes graduation, as we walked home, someone called out. We turned to see Frank standing by the school gate, wrinkled, gaunt, his coat threadbare. He took a few hesitant steps forward.
Andy, give me a hand. Ten pounds for the pension he muttered.
Mom, whos that? Harry frowned.
My heart clenched. My son didnt recognize his own father.
Evelyn stepped forward like a shield. Blythe wrapped her arms around Andy.
Hold on, Andy said, pulling out a tenpound note.
Frank stared at the children, perhaps searching for a familiar face. He found none. Their eyes were no longer his.
Yours? he asked, a tremor in his voice.
Our, Andy replied firmly.
Frank pocketed the money and walked away without a glance back.
Mom, who was that? Blythe asked as we entered the yard.
Someone I once knew, I whispered, closing the gate. A long, long time ago.
That night the house was as usual laughter, stories, warmth. A calm settled over us, the kind that follows a hardwon battle.
When the children finally drifted to sleep, Andy and I sat on the veranda. His hand squeezed mine.
What are you thinking about, Val? he asked.
About life, I said. About how not every tumble is the end. Often its just a fresh start.
And I knew that everything that had happened wasnt in vain. I had everything I ever wanted and then some.
