My children are crying for me. They’re all cuddled upstairs in bed like three adorable peas in a pod. All flushed cheeks and runny noses, sweaty foreheads and chapped lips. So tragically beautiful.
News of my little ones’ health has reached every corner of our state. Hundreds of people are talking about them, praying for them, missing them. My children. My babies. People fold crisp dollar bills in my trembling hand when I encounter them on the road, they listen, enthralled, as I recount my story, our story, with tears in my eyes. My table is laden with covered dishes and treats from the neighbors and friends. Baskets of muffins and fruit, casseroles, pies, tins of homemade cookies. I’ll pack the food away for now. I know what my children need. I know why they cry.
The soup is almost done. It’s their favorite. My own recipe. One I’ll never share with anyone. I add a little pinch of my most special ingredient before ladling large helpings into three identical, bright yellow bowls. My babies will be beloved forever.