A year has passed since that Tuesday afternoon when Josh walked through the door with two newborn babies.
We’re a family of four now. Josh is 17 and about to start his senior year. Lila and Liam are walking, babbling, and getting into everything. Our apartment is chaos — toys everywhere, mysterious stains, a constant soundtrack of laughter and crying.
Josh is different now. Older in ways that have nothing to do with years. He still does midnight feedings when I’m too tired. Still reads bedtime stories in different voices. And still panics when one of them sneezes too hard.
He gave up football. Stopped hanging out with most of his friends. His college plans have shifted. He’s looking at community college now, something close to home.
I hate that he’s sacrificing so much. But when I try to talk to him about it, he just shakes his head.
“They’re not a sacrifice, Mom. They’re my family.”
Two babies crawling on the floor | Source: Freepik
Last week, I found him asleep on the floor between the two cribs, one hand reaching up to each. Liam had his tiny fist wrapped around Josh’s finger.
I stood in the doorway watching them, and I thought about that first day. About how terrified I was, how angry, and how completely unprepared.
I still don’t know whether we did the right thing. Some days, when the bills pile up and exhaustion feels like quicksand, I wonder if we should’ve made different choices.
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