I looked at both of them and thought:
We actually made it.
After everything.
Every loss.
Every disappointment.
Every appointment.
They were here.
But happiness and exhaustion can exist at the same time.
By the evening, the pain had become intense.
Every movement pulled across my abdomen.
Getting out of bed required help.
Walking to the bathroom felt like climbing a mountain.
And I knew this was only the beginning.
The doctor reminded me again:
"No heavy lifting."
"No strenuous activity."
"Take your time."
"Let people help you."
My mother nodded.
I nodded.
Then I looked at the empty chair beside my bed.
That was supposed to be Trevor.
He was still at the beach.
Bringing the Babies Home
My mother helped me bring the twins home.
Those first days were brutal.
I couldn't stand for long.
I couldn't bend comfortably.
Getting up from a chair took planning.
Even coughing hurt.
And babies don't care that their mother has just had surgery.
They still need feeding.
Changing.
Holding.
Burping.
Comforting.
At two in the morning.
At three.
At four.
Every hour seemed to belong to someone else.
My mother did everything she could.
But she wasn't twenty-five anymore.
She was exhausted too.
One evening, both babies started crying at the same time.
I was sitting on the couch.
I picked up one.
Then tried to reach for the other.
A sharp pain ripped across my abdomen.
I gasped.
The baby in my arms began crying harder.
My mother rushed into the room.
"What are you doing?"
"I just—"
She took the baby from me.
"You're not supposed to lift both of them."
"I know."
"Then stop trying to be a hero."
I started crying.
"I'm not trying to be a hero."
"I know."