I gave birth to triplets, and my husband fled in terrorhe didnt even come to see me in the delivery ward.
Triplets? Youre a heroine, Violet Harper! All three are healthya boy and two girls! Its a miracle! they cried.
Im just a mother, I said, smiling through a veil of exhaustion, trying to grasp the whirlwind of the past eighteen hours.
It truly felt like a miracle, and at the same time a source of dread. The first days in the maternity ward slipped by in a haze, caught between raw fatigue and a new, boundless joy.
I lay on the hard hospital cot, gathering strength after the hard labour, imagining the moment when Freddie would first hold our children.
In my mind Leo already had his bright eyes, and the girlsdarkhaired like me. The doctors promised to bring the babies to us as soon as the final checks were done.
I waited for Freddie the next morning, but he never arrived. A nurse called the post office, asking someone to pass a note Perhaps the message didnt get through? The farmhands had been out checking fields for three days; maybe he was stuck there?
On the third day someone delivered a jar of compote, a plate of cottage cheese pancakes, fresh nappies. It wasnt Freddies delivery, though; it was a neighbours.
On a scrap of paper it read: Freddies got his head in the bottle again, Vally. We reckon Granddad Gregory will take you in. Dont worry, weve got your back. Signed: Molly, Clare, June.
My hands went cold; a sticky dread seeped under my skin.
Just five days ago I was a simple country woman, hoping for my first child. Now I was a mother of three, a father who wouldnt even look at them, and a crushing feeling of betrayal tightening my chest.
The corridor echoed with the thud of heavy boots.
Violet, a nurse peeked in, Granddad Gregory is here to collect you. He says the neighbour saw him arrive on the cart! Hes waiting by the side entrance, next to the pantry.
The nurse helped me gather the infants, swaddling them with practiced, gentle hands. She handed me a bundle. Heres your eldest daughter.
I cradled Ellen, the quiet one of the three. The midwife had told me shed emerged two minutes before her sister.
The second girl I named Celia, hoping shed grow strong enough to face anything. The boy I called Leo, after my grandfather.
We stepped onto the porch, each step a dull ache in my limbs.
Granddad Gregory stood beside the old horsedrawn wagon, its reins held by a stubborn mare. Seeing us, he tossed a coal briquette into the snow.
Ready, love? Lets get moving, he said, taking the other two babies from the nurse and placing them on prepared blankets. Well make it through.
Silence fell over the journey. Snow thickened, but the road to the village was compacted, and the wagon glided softly between drifts.
Gregory nudged the reins now and then, muttering under his breath. We passed collective farms, a strip of forest, a low bridge, and finally the roof of our cottage appeared on the horizon.
Just a little longer, he grumbled, helping me down.
The children stayed in the wagon, and I feared even a moments separation. Yet the fire needed stoking, the door opened.
Gregory lifted the cradles, and my hands trembled with fatigue and worry. He was the first into the house; I followed, stopping dead in the doorway.
Freddie stood in the middle of the room, a suitcase open, belongings scattered. He looked at me as if I were a stranger.
Whats this? my voice came out hoarse.
I wasnt prepared. I never expected triplets, he said, his gaze sliding past me. Youll manage on your own. Im sorry.
Gregory set the cradles by the hearth, his neck veins standing out like cords of blood.
Youve gone mad, Freddie! Abandoning three children and your wife? his voice cracked like thunder.
Stay out of it, you old fool! Freddie snapped, turning back to his things.
Have any conscience! Gregory grabbed his shoulder, but Freddie slipped free, slammed his suitcase shut.
Freddie, I stepped forward, just look at them
He stared at the cradles, then walked toward the door, crossed the threshold, out into the drifting snow, and vanished as if hed never been there.
I sank to the floor, feeling something inside me die. I breathed, but emptiness ruled my soul.
The first year was a trial no enemy would wish upon anyone.
At dawn I rose; by midnight I was still up. Nappies, bodysuits, bottles, teatslife became an endless loop of care. One fed, another wailed
Changing three at once sent me back to the beginning. My hands cracked from constant washing, my fingers blistered from twisting damp cloths.
We survived by miracle after miracle. Each morning the doorstep offered something newa jug of milk, a sack of oats, a bundle of firewood. The villagers helped in silence, without fanfare.
Most often it was Molly who came. She washed the babies, taught me how to mix formula when my own milk ran low.
Hold on, Vally, she said, expertly wrapping Leo. People around here dont let each other down. Freddies a fool, but youre a survivor. Gods blessed you with these children.
Granddad Gregory checked the hearth every evening, made sure the roof didnt leak.
One night he brought a few men who repaired the shed, replaced rotting floorboards, patched the windows.
When the first frosts hit, Vera (now Clare) delivered tiny woollen socksthree pairs each size. The children grew by the hour despite scarce food and hard living.
Spring brought smiles. Ellens calm was astonishing for a newborn; she seemed to understand the world already.
Celia, on the contrary, was loud and demanding, her cries echoing through the cottage. Leo was restless and curious; the moment he learned to roll, he began exploring everything.
That summer I learned to live anew. I tied a carrier to my back for one infant, placed the other two in a makeshift pram, and trudged to the garden between feeds, washes, and brief naps.
Freddie never returned. Rumour after rumour placed him in the neighboring villageshaggy, unshaven, eyes glazed.
I stopped hating him; I had no strength left to hate. All that remained was love for my children and the fight for another tomorrow.
By the fifth winter life began to settle. The children grew more independent, helping each other, eventually starting at the local nursery. I took a parttime job at the village library, bringing home books each night to read to the little ones before bed.
Winter brought a new smith, Andrew. Tall, with a silvered beard and laugh lines around his eyes, he looked forty but moved with the vigor of a man half his age. He first entered the library in February, the snow howling outside.
Good afternoon, he rasped. Got anything worth reading in the evenings? Perhaps Dumas?
I handed him a wellworn copy of *The Three Musketeers*. He thanked me and left. The next day he returned, a wooden toy horse in his hands.
This is for your little ones, he said, offering the carved pony. I have a knack for woodwork.
From then on he visited regularlytrading books, bringing new toys.
Leo clung to him at once, grabbing his hand, pulling him toward his treasures. The girls were more cautious, but soon they too sought his attention.
In April, when the snow was melting, Andrew brought a sack of seed potatoes.
Here you go, he said simply. Good variety, perfect for planting.
I blushed, unused to mens help after Freddies betrayal.
Thanks, but I can manage I began.
I know, he nodded. Everyone knows how strong you are. Sometimes accepting help is strength, too.
At that moment Leo burst from behind the gate with a stick.
Uncle Andrew! Look, a sword! Shall we make a real one?
Of course! Andrew grinned, sitting down. And well craft something lovely for your sisters too.
They trooped to the barn, discussing their projects. I watched them, and for the first time in ages I felt warmth stir in my chest.
Summer saw Andrew more oftenhelping in the garden, mending fences, spending afternoons with the children.
Ellen and Celia shed their shy silences, sharing secrets with him. With Andrew nearby, peace settled over the house, all the frantic chatter quieted.
One September evening, the children asleep, we sat on the porch. The night sky glittered, distant dogs barked.
Vally, Andrew said, let me stay, not just as a guest. I love your children as my own.
His eyes shone with sincerity, no hint of doubt.
I stared at the stars in silence. Sometimes fate snatches away to give back far more. All you have to do is wait.
Fifteen years have slipped by since those first cries, like a single breath. Our yard now boasts a sturdy fence, a new roof, a solid barn with a chicken coop. Andrew built a veranda with large windows.
Every evening we gather there, together. Leo, a tall teenager now, has outgrown Andrew. His hands are calloused from a summer in the forge.
Ellen is preparing for a teaching college, Celia is a creative spirit filling notebooks with poems.
I work fulltime at the library. Children address me respectfully: Mrs. Violet Harper. I sometimes stand in for teachers, leading literature lessons, sharing thoughts on life, choice, and resilience.
Andrew has become a jackofalltrades, opening a workshop where he repairs everythingfrom locks to engines.
Leo spends hours beside him, learning the craft. Hes long called Andrew Dad, and the girls simply say our Andrew.
On the day Celia graduated, as we walked home a voice called out. We turned.
By the school fence stood Freddie, gaunt, his coat threadbare. He took a few hesitant steps forward.
Andrew, lend a hand. Even a tenner will do he muttered.
Mom, whos that? Leo asked, brow furrowed.
My heart clenched. My son didnt recognise his own father.
Ellen stepped forward like a shield. Celia wrapped her arms around Andrew.
Hold on, Andrew said, pulling out a tenpound note.
Freddie stared at the children, perhaps searching for something familiar. He found none. They were ours now.
Yours? he asked, bewildered.
Their, Andrew answered firmly.
Freddie pocketed the money, turned, and walked away without a word, without looking back.
Mom, who was that? Celia asked as we entered the courtyard.
Someone I once knew, I whispered, closing the gate. A long, long time ago.
That night the house was as usuallaughter, stories, warmth, and the calm that follows a hardwon battle.
When the children finally slept, Andrew and I sat on the veranda, his hand gripping mine.
What are you thinking about, Vally?
About life. About how not every fall is the end. Often its just a new beginning.
I knew then that everything that had happened was not in vain. I had everything I ever dreamed ofand more.
