Page 275 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

“She already is.”

The tiny boy lets out a disgruntled squeak. I touch his little hand. “Miles Ethan Strong.”

Addy looks at me softly. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

“And Baby C?” the nurse asks.

I look at Addy. Her face changes. We discussed this one the most. The name that was grief and healing braided together. We never wanted Megan’s name to feel like a replacement or an obligation. We wanted it to feel like love carried forward instead of trapped in grief.

A tribute.

A door opening instead of closing.

Addy nods.

My voice is rough. “Megan Rose Strong.”

The room goes quiet inside me.

For years, Megan’s name was pain, a wound, a locked room. Now it rests here, soft and new, held in Addy’s arms beside our other children. Not replacing the past. Honoring it.

Addy reaches for me. “She would’ve loved them.”

My chest breaks open. “She would’ve loved you.”

Addy cries again, and I kiss her forehead, her temple, her hair, anywhere I can reach.

“I love you,” I whisper.

“I love you too.”

The triplets are taken for monitoring after that, and I go with them because Addy insists.

“They need one of us,” she says, exhausted but stubborn.

“You need me.”

“They need you too.”

So I go.

I stand behind glass and watch my children become real under soft lights and careful hands.

Ava Lucille.

Miles Ethan.

Megan Rose.

Three heartbeats I once feared. Three futures I almost let fear steal from me.

When I return to Addy’s room, she’s asleep. I just stand there. Her hair is messy, her face is pale, and she looks exhausted down to her bones. She has never been more beautiful.

I sit beside her and take her hand carefully.

Her eyes flutter open. “Babies?”