For the first time since my wife died, I spoke to them about her without my voice breaking.
“Your mother would have loved these ridiculous little outfits,” I said.
They blinked at me.
I smiled.
I still missed my wife every minute.
I still reached toward the empty side of the bed.
I still had nights when both babies cried and I wondered whether I was strong enough to carry all three of us into morning.
But I no longer heard that woman’s voice when I held my daughters.
I heard my wife’s.
Take care of them.
So I did.
Not perfectly.
Not without fear.
But without apologizing for being their father.
