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He’d been driving to a charity event. Died on impact.
I felt nothing. Just a hollow acknowledgment that he’d existed and now he didn’t.
“Does this change anything?”
“No,” I said. “Nothing changes.”
Because it didn’t. Derek had stopped being relevant the moment he walked out of that hospital.
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 Mason 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.
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.”
Last week, I found him asleep on the floor between the two cribs, one hand reaching up to each.
Mason 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.
But then Lila laughs at something Josh does, or Mason reaches for him first thing in the morning, and I know the truth.
My son walked through the door a year ago with two babies in his arms and words that changed everything: “Sorry, Mom, I couldn’t leave them.”
He didn’t leave them.
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