used to think the hardest part of raising twins was the exhaustion. The kind that turns time into a blur of bottles, diapers, and three-hour stretches of sleep if you\u2019re lucky. But I was wrong.<\/p>\n
My husband, Mark, traveled for work at least twice a month. Sometimes more. And we didn\u2019t have a safety net.<\/p>\n
No family. No grandparents. No aunt who could swing by with soup and tell me to go shower. My parents were gone, and I\u2019d been their only child. Mark had grown up in foster care, bouncing between homes like a piece of luggage nobody wanted to claim. We built our life on our own\u2014proud of it, even\u2014but when the twins arrived, that pride started to feel like a weight.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou shouldn\u2019t have to do this alone,\u201d he said. \u201cI should\u2019ve hired help months ago.\u201d<\/p>\n
So we did it the \u201cright\u201d way. Licensed agency. Verified references. Background checks. CPR certification. I went through the paperwork like it was a contract with the universe: if something went wrong, it wouldn\u2019t be because I hadn\u2019t done enough.<\/p>\n
The agency sent Mrs. Higgins.<\/p>\n
She looked like someone\u2019s favorite aunt. Around sixty, maybe. Gray hair twisted into a neat bun, soft blue cardigan, sensible flats. She smelled faintly of lavender and sugar cookies, and she spoke in that warm, confident way that made you think of bedtime stories and band-aids on scraped knees.
\n\u201cOh, my little darlings,\u201d she said the moment she saw the boys.<\/p>\n
And my sons\u2014who normally reacted to strangers like they were being offered to wolves\u2014crawled straight into her lap like they\u2019d been waiting for her.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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