I chose our twin daughters over my wife and I’ve been eating myself alive since — her mother didn’t speak to me for three months, and as she finally showed up at my door she said, “”There’s something about my daughter I can’t hide from you anymore.””
My wife’s mother didn’t speak to me for three months.
Not at the funeral. Not after. I’d send photos of the girls and get back “”Thank you.”” That was it.
And I understood. I’d have done the same in her place.
Because when it came down to it in that room, I was the one who said, “”Save the babies.””
That morning we were still arguing about names. Mary said they didn’t need matching names just because they were twins. I said maybe we should’ve sorted this out a bit sooner. She laughed and asked me to pass her the water.
By that evening I was holding her hand while people I’d never met talked over her bed, and somebody asked me what we wanted them to prioritize.
I looked at her.
“”Mary—””
She squeezed my fingers.
“”The girls. Obviously the girls.””
I waited. I kept waiting for her to change her mind, or for somebody to tell us there was another way.
“”Please,”” she said.
So I agreed.
That was the last decision we ever made together.
I came home with two daughters and a bag of her things. Her sweatshirt was in it, the one she arrived in. I still haven’t washed it.
Everyone said the same sentence to me. Stay strong, those girls need you.
So I got up at night. Warmed bottles. Wrote down how much each of them took because I was too tired to keep it straight in my head. Stood over their cribs for twenty minutes at a time making sure they were breathing.
My sister brought food around and threw it out days later, untouched. My jeans stopped fitting.
And every time that house went quiet, the same thought.
What if I’d said something else?
Then last Thursday the doorbell went, and her mother was standing on my porch.
I started explaining before she’d even gotten inside. I don’t know why. I think I’d been rehearsing it for three months.
“”I didn’t want to lose her. She asked me to and I — I should have done something, I should have at least—””
“”I know.””
“”No. You don’t understand. I agreed to it.””
She looked down at the envelope she was holding with both hands.
“”Do you think I stayed away because I blame you?””
I couldn’t answer that.
“”Mary asked me not to tell you. I promised her. I thought she’d have time to tell you herself.”””