No call. No message. No note tucked under the windshield wiper of my car. Nothing.

When I went to his house, his mother opened the door just wide enough for her body to block the frame. Her arms were crossed, and her expression was as cold as the brass knob she held.

“He is not here, Rachel,” she said. “Sorry.”

Her eyes moved past me like I was a stranger selling something she did not want.

“Is he coming back?” I asked.

“He has gone to stay with family out west,” she replied. Then she shut the door. No address. No phone number. No “we will keep in touch.”

By the end of that week, Evan had blocked my number and disappeared from every corner of my life.

I was still reeling when I lay on the exam table for my first ultrasound, the paper crinkling under my back. The nurse turned the screen toward me, and there they were: two little flickers, two heartbeats, side by side.

Twins.

Something settled inside of me in that instant. If no one else showed up, I would. I did not know how, but I would.

My parents were far from thrilled when I told them I was pregnant. When I added that I was carrying twins, my father went silent and my mother pressed her hand to her mouth.

But when I handed my mom the sonogram picture, something in her softened. Tears welled in her eyes. She sat down at the kitchen table, smoothed the picture flat, and said quietly, “We will do the best we can, sweetheart. You are not alone.”

When my boys were born, the delivery room faded into a blur of bright lights and hurried voices. I remember the first cry: loud, strong, offended by the cold air of the world. Then another cry, just as insistent.

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