CHAP 2 — The Town Chose His Story
Peter’s family moved faster than grief.
Two days after he walked out, a lawyer came to my hospital room with a letter.
Peter Wallace denied paternity.
Peter Wallace demanded no contact.
Peter Wallace would not be financially responsible for children conceived through “deception.”
I read the word deception while Ruby slept against my skin.
My hands shook so badly the paper rattled.
“Tell him to take a DNA test,” I said.
The lawyer would not meet my eyes.
“Mr. Wallace does not wish to engage further.”
Of course he didn’t.
Truth required patience.
Humiliation wanted speed.
By the time I left the hospital, the story had already spread. Peter came from one of those families that owned car dealerships, sponsored Little League teams, and had their name on plaques inside churches. His mother knew how to whisper in the right ears.
Poor Anna Collins had cheated.
Poor Peter had been humiliated.
Poor Wallace family, nearly trapped by five babies.
No one said poor babies.
Landlords heard “single mother with five infants” and suddenly their apartments were unavailable. Employers heard newborn quintuplets and stopped returning calls. Strangers in grocery stores counted the car seats and stared.
My own aunt told me, “You should have been more careful with men.”
I stopped speaking to her.
I moved into a two-bedroom unit above a closed laundromat because the owner, Mr. Patel, had once known my father and charged me less than he should have. Five cribs filled one room. I slept on a fold-out chair between them.
I cleaned offices from 10 p.m. to 3 a.m. while an older neighbor watched the babies for cash. I sewed school uniforms before sunrise. I took in alterations, scrubbed floors, delivered groceries, and learned how to stretch one roasted chicken into four meals once the babies were old enough to eat.
Peter sent nothing.
Not diapers.
Not formula.
Not one birthday card.
When Ethan was six months old, he developed a fever so high I thought I would lose him. I called Peter from the hospital payphone.
His mother answered.
“Anna,” Marlene said coldly, “my son has moved on. You should too.”
“His baby is sick.”
Her voice sharpened.
“You mean your baby.”
Then she hung up.
I cried in the hospital bathroom for exactly three minutes because that was all I could afford.
Then I washed my face and went back to Ethan.
The children grew on noise and love.
Olivia was serious from the beginning, watching everything with solemn gray eyes.
Ethan laughed before the others.
Grace hated sleep and loved music.
Miles climbed before he walked.
Ruby, the smallest, the one doctors feared for most, became the loudest fighter in the house.
Every night, I told them the same thing.
“You were wanted.”
When they were old enough to ask about their father, I gave them the truth without poison.
“He left because he was afraid and wrong.”
Ruby once asked, “Wrong about us?”
May you like
I held her close.
“No, baby. Wrong about himself.”
