I was told my twin daughters died the day they were born. I spent five years grieving. Then, on my first day working at a daycare, I saw two little girls with the same unusual eyes I have: one blue, one brown. One of them ran straight to me and cried, “Mom, you came back!” What I uncovered afterward haunted me.
I wasn’t supposed to cry on my first day.
I had repeated that to myself the entire drive there: this job was meant to be a fresh start. A new city meant a new beginning. I would walk into that daycare calm, professional, and composed.
I wasn’t supposed to cry on my first day.
I was arranging art supplies on the back table when the morning group arrived.
Two little girls came through the door holding hands. Dark curls. Round cheeks. The confident walk of children who feel at home wherever they go. They couldn’t have been older than five, the same age my twins would have been.
