My parents were far from thrilled when I told them I was pregnant. When I added that I was carrying twins, my father went silent and my mother pressed her hand to her mouth.
But when I handed my mom the sonogram picture, something in her softened. Tears welled in her eyes. She sat down at the kitchen table, smoothed the picture flat, and said quietly, “We will do the best we can, sweetheart. You are not alone.”
Noah came first. Then Liam. Or maybe it was the other way around. I was too tired to hold on to the sequence, but some details carved themselves into me forever.
I remember tiny fists, especially Liam’s, clenched like he came into the world ready to argue with it. I remember Noah blinking up at me with a calm, steady gaze, as if he were already trying to figure things out.
The early years passed in a haze of sleepless nights, bottles, and lullabies whispered in the dark. I learned the exact squeak in the stroller wheel that meant it needed oil. I knew the precise time the morning sun would spill through the living room window and warm the rug where they played with blocks.
Money was tight. Time was tighter.
There were nights when I sat on the kitchen floor after putting them to bed, eating peanut butter on the heel of a stale loaf of bread because that is what we had left, and I was too exhausted to cook. I worked whatever jobs I could find, one after another, trading free evenings for rent and diapers.
But the boys kept growing, as boys do.
One day they were tumbling around in footed pajamas, giggling at cartoons. The next, they were arguing over whose turn it was to carry the grocery bags from the car.
I remember one dinner when Liam was about eight. I had roasted a chicken and divided it carefully, making sure they got the best pieces.
