By the time they were teenagers, people liked calling me inspirational. I hated that word. My real life was permission slips, overtime, burnt grilled cheese, tangled hair, and trying to stay patient when all three girls were talking at once and the dog was barking and the school nurse was calling before breakfast.
And they weren’t the same, despite how similar other people thought they were.
I was not a hero, some figure I would have looked up to. I was their dad.
And they weren’t the same, despite how similar other people thought they were.
Lily was steady, the one who thought before she spoke. Nora could cut straight through nonsense without raising her voice. Gabriella felt everything first and figured out later what to do with it.
They were triplets.
They were never interchangeable.
Then someone stepped in front of us and blocked the sun.
Graduation morning came hot and bright. I ironed my shirt twice because my hands would not stay steady. The girls teased me while I fussed over the collars on dresses they could not see. Gabriella hugged me from the side and asked if I was breathing through a paper bag.
We got to the school field early because crowds were easier for them before the noise swelled. I lined their canes against our seats, passed out bottles of water, and tried not to think about how eighteen years had somehow happened all at once.
Then someone stepped in front of us and blocked the sun.
Clarissa lifted her face, older now but polished and expensive, and my stomach dropped.
A hat.
