Three Baby Cribs and a Missing Set of Car Keys
In the second crib, Soleil lay with her head turned to the side, one tiny fist pressed against her cheek. She looked small in the large wooden frame, but her cheeks were flushed with a healthy, warm pink.
I walked over to the third crib, where Luna was just beginning to stir. I reached down and adjusted her sheet, smoothing the fabric over her small shoulders with a slow, deliberate movement.
My left hand felt light without the gold ring, the skin where it had lived for five years pale and slightly indented. I rubbed the spot with my thumb, a habit I knew would take time to break, but there was no trembling in my fingers.
The silence of the house was not the heavy, waiting silence of the old place. It was a quiet that belonged to us, free of the expectation of a door slamming or a voice rising in defense.
The hum of the baby monitor on the dresser was steady, carrying only the soft rustle of the triplets turning in their sleep. I stood there for a long time, simply watching the rise and fall of their backs.
