I was told my twin daughters died the day they were born. I spent five long years grieving them. Then, on my very first day working at a daycare, I noticed two little girls with the exact same rare eyes I have—one blue, one brown. One of them rushed toward me and cried, “Mom, you came back!” What I uncovered after that moment would stay with me forever.
I had promised myself I wouldn’t break down on my first day.
During the entire drive there, I repeated it like a mantra: this job was supposed to be a new beginning. A different city meant turning a new page. I would walk into that daycare calm, professional, and completely composed.
I was arranging paint jars and crayons on a table in the back when the morning class started arriving.Two small girls stepped through the doorway together, their fingers laced. Dark curls framed their faces, their cheeks full and soft. They moved with the bold, unbothered confidence that only young children have when they believe the whole world belongs to them. They couldn’t have been more than five years old—exactly the age my twins would have been.
I smiled automatically, the polite smile adults give children.
