Their skin was deep brown. Their hair was soft and tight against their heads. One had a fist pressed to her cheek, another sighed in her sleep like the world was already exhausting.
“They’re sisters?” he asked.
“We don’t know,” Sister Catherine admitted. “No papers. No note. Just a basket on our steps and nine babies inside. A miracle and a tragedy.”
Richard stared at them like he was staring at fate.
“What happens to them?” he asked, voice unsteady.
Sister Catherine didn’t answer right away. Her silence did.
“People will adopt one,” she said finally. “Sometimes two. But nine…” She shook her head. “No one wants to take them all.”
Richard looked at the cribs again. He pictured strangers pointing, choosing, separating them like items on a shelf. He pictured nine lives starting together and being forced apart because it was “easier.” His throat tightened until it hurt.
“So you’ll split them,” he said.
Sister Catherine’s eyes looked tired. “We’ll do what we must,” she replied. “But yes. Separation is likely.”
The storm cracked outside like a warning. Richard thought of the empty nursery at home. He thought of Anne’s words pressing against his ribs. Then he heard himself speak before his logic could stop him.
“I’ll take them.”
Sister Catherine blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“I’ll adopt them,” Richard said again, louder. “All of them.”
Her face shifted—shock first, then fear on his behalf.
“Mr. Miller… you’re alone,” she said carefully.
“I know.”
“Nine babies are a lifetime,” she warned. “It isn’t—this isn’t like getting a puppy. It’s bottles and sickness and school and—”
“I know,” he repeated, even though he didn’t. Not the details. Only the meaning.
Sister Catherine searched his face for recklessness. For ego. For performance.
Richard’s hands shook slightly, but his gaze didn’t. “I don’t want them separated,” he said thickly. “Not if I can stop it.”
Her eyes glistened. “Why would you do something so impossible?”
Richard swallowed hard. “Because my wife told me not to let love die,” he said. “And I have love left. Too much. I need somewhere to put it.”
For a long moment, Sister Catherine said nothing. Then she exhaled.
“This won’t be quick,” she warned. “Courts. Social workers. Home inspections. People will question your sanity.”
Richard nodded once. “Then let them.”
Sister Catherine looked at the nine cribs again as if she was choosing hope on purpose. She placed her palm against his. Warm. Steady.
“Then we’ll try,” she said. “For them.”
And in that nursery, while nine tiny girls slept under soft blankets and thunder rolled outside, Richard Miller’s life began again.
