There were many nights when I wondered if I was doing enough or if I was getting any of it right. But looking back now, I can follow everything that happened back to one choice I made on a normal October night.
The porch light was flickering that October, throwing a narrow yellow circle across the wooden boards. I came home after a double shift, smelling like sawdust and motor oil, my keys already in my hand, and I nearly stumbled over them.
Three car seats, one diaper bag, and a note scribbled on a gas receipt.
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