We don’t talk the same anymore. Our words are clipped, our touches rushed, our silences heavy. We’re not mad—we’re drowning.
Last week, during another bleary-eyed feeding, he whispered, “Do you think someone else could love one of them more than we’re able to right now?” I didn’t respond. Not because I was angry—but because I’d wondered the same thing.
It sounds monstrous, doesn’t it? Giving up a child. But it’s not about love. It’s about survival. About giving all of them a chance to be raised by parents who aren’t broken from the start.
We spoke to a counselor. Quietly. Carefully. No promises. Just questions. What would it mean? What kind of adoption? Would we still see them?
We haven’t decided. We hold them, and they’re ours. But we also hold our breath, every hour of every day, wondering how long we can keep this up.
Lesson: Sometimes, love means facing the ugliest questions with open hearts. Not because you want to let go—but because you want the very best, even if it breaks you.
