64 While I was giving birth to our premature triplets, my husband ignored my calls and later asked me to tell everyone he had been there. By the next afternoon, the lie he wanted me to protect had already started falling apart. But I still had not seen the charge that would tell me his warehouse story was hiding something much worse.

Two weeks later, the rain finally stopped, leaving behind crisp, golden autumn air that smelled of falling leaves and woodsmoke.

Molly’s townhouse in the historic district of the city was small—a charming red-brick brownstone with white trim, window boxes, and a narrow staircase leading up to a second-floor nursery that had been transformed into a haven of pastel greens and soft white cribs.

Ada, June, and Theo had finally graduated from the NICU.

At five pounds each, they were healthy, pink-cheeked, and sleeping peacefully in their side-by-side bassinets when Molly and I carried them through the front door.

"Welcome home, babies," Molly whispered, kissing Theo’s tiny forehead as we settled him into his crib.

I stood by the window, looking out over the tree-lined street below. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw a notification from Sarah Chen’s office.

Evan’s federal arraignment is set for Tuesday morning. His defense counsel has filed for a plea bargain—guilty on two counts of wire fraud in exchange for a recommended sentence of forty-eight months.

I locked the screen and slid the phone back into my pocket without opening the message.

It didn't matter anymore. Evan was a ghost haunting a past I had already left behind.

Downstairs, the doorbell rang.

Molly looked up from adjusting June’s swaddle blanket. "Expecting anyone?"

"No," I said, a slight smile touching my lips. "Probably just the pediatrician’s welcome-home care package."

I walked down the narrow wooden stairs and pulled open the front door.

There was no delivery driver on the porch.

Instead, standing on the welcome mat was my mother, holding a large casserole dish, and behind her, my father carrying a wooden rocking chair we had donated to the nursery.

"We brought dinner," my mother said softly, her eyes shining with unshed tears as she looked up at me. "And we're here to stay as long as you need us."

I looked at my parents, then back up the stairs where three tiny heartbeats were beating in steady, beautiful harmony.