My mother was inside, still in her coat, one baby pressed to her shoulder, the other lying in the crib. Mom looked up when I came in and started crying, her eyes dropping from my face to my leg.
“Arnie…”
“Mom? What happened? Where’s Mara?”
Mom looked away from me.
“I’m so sorry, Arnie. Mara asked me to take the girls to church. Said she needed some time alone. But when I got back…”
I saw the note on the dresser.
One line locked everything into place:
“Mark told me about your leg. And that you were coming to surprise me today. I can’t do this, Arnold. I won’t waste my life on a broken man and changing diapers. Mark can give me more. Take care… Mara.”
I read it twice.
Mark didn’t just tell Mara. He gave her a reason to leave.
I put the note back on the dresser.
I picked up Katie, who was still crying, and sat on the floor with my back against the crib and held her. My mother put Mia in my other arm without saying anything.
I didn’t resist it. I let all of it hit at once.
At some point, both girls quieted, falling into a heavy sleep against my chest.
I looked at their faces and made them a promise out loud:
“You are not going anywhere, sweethearts. Neither am I.”
The next three years were the most demanding and defining of my life.
My mother moved in for the first year. We found a rhythm. I learned to move through the world differently.
The prosthetic worked, but not well enough. It hurt and slowed me down. So I started fixing it.
I sketched ideas at the kitchen table after the twins were asleep.
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