It was late October, a storm rattling the old windows of the estate, when my mother went into labor with triplets.
The midwife and I were the only ones present in the attic nursery—a cramped, dimly lit room that smelled faintly of antiseptic and rain.
The birth itself was swift, yet marked by a tension that hung heavy in the air.
My mother lay on the narrow bed, her face a mask of concentration and pain.
As the first cries echoed in the room, a brief flicker of relief crossed her features.
But when the third child opened his eyes, everything changed.
His eyes were unsettlingly different.
A murmur of unease rippled through the room.
My mother’s face tightened.
It was a subtle change, yet it seemed as if a part of her was about to break.
