The first thing I recognized was the stitching near the pocket.
I’d sewn that little tear in my son’s dark green coat three winters earlier.
Now the coat was draped across two newborn babies on my porch.
“Julian?”
I looked up and down the driveway.
Nobody stood in front of me.
The doorbell had rung just before six. I’d opened it expecting a delivery, not a baby carrier holding two little girls.
Their faces were uncovered, and both wore warm clothes beneath the familiar coat.
I brought the carrier inside.
Then I felt something in the coat’s pocket.
A folded letter.
My name was written across it in handwriting I’d recognize anywhere.
I opened it.
“Mom,
You always told me I could come to you when I needed help.
I didn’t forget that. I just stopped believing I deserved to.
These are my daughters, Emma and Chloe. They’re two weeks old. Their mother is Maya.
