Chapter Text
"What a joy to suffer for the One we love! When I am in darkness and nothing comforts me, I remind myself that I am not alone."
— Saint Thérèse of Lisieux
The delivery room was too bright.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like flies swarming a carcass. The air reeked of antiseptic, blood, and something sweeter—like fear or amniotic fluid. Every surface gleamed. Every breath tasted like metal.
Marc came first, red and furious. His cries split the sterile silence, fists clenched like a prizefighter. A nurse cooed and swaddled him, her eyes crinkling behind the mask as she whispered, “Strong one.”
Jake followed two minutes later. He didn’t cry so much as wail—offended by the world, offended by air. Another nurse swept him into a bundle, nodding toward the clock. Time of birth: marked.
When they laid him down, he twisted toward Marc’s voice, gurgling softly as if something ancient inside him already knew.
Twin boys. Pink, loud, alive.
The room softened. Laughter bloomed. The tension cracked like ice.
But it didn’t last.
Their mother shuddered on the bed, slick with sweat, her eyes wide and strange. Her lips moved—no sound. Her fingers scrabbled at the sheets.
The doctor’s smile faded. He leaned closer. “There’s… one more.”
Silence. The word dropped like lead.
A blip on a scan. A maybe. A shadow. Nothing that ever felt real—until now.
Now, it was real.
Urgency returned. The shift in tone was immediate: no more smiles, no more soft words. Nurses moved fast. Someone left the room. Someone else came in.
And then—nothing.
No cry. No sound. Just the wet slap of a too-small body arriving in a world not ready to receive him.
He was still.
Blue.
Breathless.
Machines whirred. Tubes hissed. Someone whispered “respiratory distress.” Another said, “Get him to NICU.” And still, no one said his name.
The curtain snapped closed around the mother’s bed. Behind it, a low, guttural sob broke through—a sound not of pain, but of loss. Of knowing. Of helplessness.
Jake hiccupped in his bassinet. Marc twitched like something invisible brushed past him.
There should’ve been joy. Three new lives. Instead, the air felt vacuumed of hope.
In the nursery, they placed Marc and Jake side by side—matching hats, matching bands, matching breath.
But one space remained empty.
Marc blinked at it. Jake whimpered. Something was missing.
Hours passed like molasses. The hospital hummed with routine, but inside, everything was suspended—time, breath, certainty.
No updates. No names. Just that gaping absence.
Their mother didn’t ask to hold them. She stared at the ceiling, lips trembling in prayer, hands limp at her sides.
Then, finally, a nurse stepped in.
“He’s alive,” she said. Quiet. Tender. “Barely. But he’s here.”
Still no name. Still no cry. But hope—fragile and flickering—lit the room.
In the NICU, behind glass, he lay in a crib full of wires. A plastic cocoon cradled his too-small body. His chest rose, shallow and unsure.
Still, he breathed.
Still, he fought.
Days crept by. Nurses whispered encouragement over his crib. Doctors adjusted tubes. His skin pinked. His fingers twitched.
And slowly… he stabilized.
One afternoon—nearly two weeks after their birth—they wheeled Marc and Jake into the NICU. Their bassinets looked like toys beside the monitors, but the nurses aligned them gently.
Marc. Jake.
And, finally, Steven.
The third.
He didn’t move at first.
Marc stirred, blinking up at the unfamiliar beeping. Jake was unusually quiet, eyes locked on the motionless boy beside them.
Then, Steven breathed deep.
Just once.
A quiet hum. Like the start of a lullaby. Fragile, but real.
Marc shifted closer. His fingers brushed Steven’s blanket.
Jake’s hand opened.
Steven’s palm flopped sideways—just enough to land on Marc’s wrist.
Their mother entered behind them, slow and trembling. Her eyes were rimmed with red. When she saw all three—together—she crumpled beside them.
“My boys,” she whispered. “All of you…”
And for the first time, the nurses didn’t speak. They didn’t guide. They just stood back and let it happen.
Let them be.
Three heartbeats. Three rhythms. One breath between them.
Later, Marc would become a fighter. He would take up causes, stand tall, lead with fire—but he would always flinch at the idea of something being “missing.”
Jake would love fiercely. He’d be loud, loyal, always on guard—because silence, to him, would never feel safe.
And Steven…
Steven would never understand why mirrors felt strange. Why his body felt shared. Why crowds made him feel less alone than being with just one other person.
But they would all remember that moment—even if not in words.
The third bassinet, finally filled.
Room for three.
At last.