Page 11 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

“I know.”

And I do.

Claire has been reliable in a way that’s become increasingly uncommon, particularly over the past two years. Stability, where Oliver is concerned, has required a level of persistence I’d not anticipated when I first began looking for help.

There had been others.

Candidates who looked ideal on paper and failed within days. One who resigned because Oliver asked too many questions. Another who struggled with the dog more than the child. One who believed structure meant rigidity, and another who believed it meant none at all.

Each of them had left behind some degree of disruption.

Claire hasn't.

“I’ll stay as long as I can this week,” she continues. “I’ll write everything down… his routine, preferences, anything that might help with the transition.”

“That would be useful.”

It won’t replace her.

But it will reduce the margin for error.

“Dad?”

I turn to find Oliver standing in the doorway, watching us with more awareness than I’d prefer. “Yes?”

“Are you sad?”

I lower myself slightly so that we're level, resting a hand against his shoulder.

“We’re discussing something,” I tell him. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

His gaze shifts briefly toward Claire before returning to me. “Are you leaving, Claire?”

There's no value in avoiding it. “Yes.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

The change in him is immediate. His posture tightens, his attention sharpening in a way that suggests he's already trying to understand what this means for him. “I don’t want her to go.”

“I know.”

“Can she stay?”

“No,” I say, keeping my tone even. “She has somewhere else she needs to be.”

He looks down, considering that with a seriousness that sits uneasily on someone his age. “Will the next one be good?”

“I’ll make sure they are.”

He studies me briefly, as though assessing the certainty of that statement, then nods once. “Okay.”

Trust, given without hesitation, isn’t something I take lightly.

By the time Claire leaves, the apartment feels less anchored. Oliver has spread himself and his toys across the living room in a way that suggests both intention and distraction.

“Dad,” he says without looking up, “Captain took my sock.”