EPILOGUE

I look down at my three babies, where they're all bundled in the same incubator.

They were born on thirty-three weeks, but none of them had to be incubated. I'm so proud of them, all of them able to breathe on their own. I was so worried, but they did it.

I've never cried so much as I've been crying in the last week.

The pediatrician said they should stay in the incubator for at least two weeks, and they were each placed in their own one. But the nurses said when they're apart, they cry, and when they're together, they don't.

It's the cutest thing ever.

Alessandro can't tell them apart because they look exactly alike. I don't know how, but I know who is who.

Their father proudly named them, and right now, Arcangelo's mouth cutely yawns, even though they're sleeping.

One week until we can take them home.

Right now, they've wearing onesies courtesy of their aunt saying Thing One, Thing Two, and Thing Three.

I miss Phoebe in the house, but she has to follow her own path, and she