He left me and our four kids behind. so I created a family that is more resilient than anything.
“Four kids? Take them and go. He stated icily, “I don’t want to live with that.”
Four infants were born to you? Work things out. He hardly stood in the doorway and exclaimed, “I can’t handle that.”
Without a word, I gazed at him. I had nothing. My mind was elsewhere. The four infants appeared almost surreal in their homemade cradles. Four lives. Four little, hardly noticeable breaths.
It had taken eighteen hours to complete the work. I can still clearly recall the intense lighting in the room and the midwives’ frantic voices. and my own shriek, which was so loud that it sounded like it was coming from someone else.
I thought it was over after Hugo, the first one. Despite the fact that I knew he wasn’t alone, I briefly lost consciousness. Camille then arrived. Next, Zoé. And lastly, Maxime.
My husband, Marc, had been standing at the front door of the house with a bottle in his hand while still wearing his coat. The soiled floorboards were soaked with alcohol. However, none of that was relevant at that time.
Without even bothering to glance at them, he continued, “This isn’t what I pictured.” “I desired a typical family. Not this.
Those “this” — were our kids. our own kids. Their delicate breathing, small fingers, and silky skin.
Twins are uncommon in our village. Almost legendary are the triplets. However, four
“What are your plans for feeding them? Do you believe that love is sufficient? He raked his fingers through his hair and spoke in an irritated tone.
I didn’t respond. The infants were dozing off. And that small room and the four cradles my father had constructed during a restless night had become my entire world.
“Are you hearing me, Emilie?” He spoke louder.
“You were well prepared for this. And you’re speaking like this now? Then leave. Get out. Don’t return.
Unable to speak, he simply stood there. Then he lowered his head a little.
“You’re insane… Four children. It wasn’t until the very end that I truly believed it.
Gently, he shut the door. No violence. Only a gentle click. However, that sound seemed to me like an explosion. The world remained intact. It just changed.
I watched him leave while I stood motionless by the window. He walked swiftly, straight-backed. He didn’t turn around.
My neighbor Marie was the first to arrive. She remained silent. She started the stove, swept up the ashes, and picked up a broom. The retired teacher, Madame Lefèvre, then arrived.
She started singing quietly as she sat next to the infants. Other women from the village came a little later. One with diapers, the other with soup.
The village elder, Grandma Lucie, replied, “My girl, you’ll make it.” “You will not be the last, and you are not the first.”
I was by myself that night. The kids went to sleep. It was so quiet that I could hear my own heartbeat. Four birth certificates on the table. Four names.
I refrained from crying. I was unable to. However, I developed a kind of strength that was harsh and unwavering. similar to a pledge.
I took the phone. Three rings.
“Dad,” I said. “He is no longer there.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow,” was his straightforward response.
I told myself in a whisper as I watched the infants sleep that night, “I’m going to make it.” For you. Because I knew you were worth every difficulty the moment I heard you cry for the first time.
The following morning, my dad showed up. tall, kind-eyed, and gray-haired. He turned to face his grandchildren. then put what he had saved on the table.
“Do you want tea?” I questioned him.Indeed. We will then construct an additional room. We won’t make it through the winter with five of us in here.
That was the start of our new life. Not with Marc. But with a great deal of love, dignity, and strength.
The early years of my kids were like a river: occasionally serene, occasionally untamed, but always vibrant.
We found refuge at my father’s house on the outskirts of the hamlet.
My mother would rock them to sleep and remark, “It’s not right that they grow up without bedtime stories.”
Every youngster developed at a different rate.
Dreamy and light-eyed, Camille saw beauty everywhere.
By the age of five, a more serious and resilient Hugo was cutting wood.
Quiet and often holding a book, Zoé constructed habitats for insects.
Fearless and inquisitive, Maxime returned home each day with skinned knees.
Their voices reverberated throughout our home, day and night. Our new normal was what had previously seemed unattainable.
Having a kid on my hip taught me how to cook. to use a bedroom lamp to iron after everyone had gone to sleep.
The children adopted my father as their anchor, referring to him as “Papy Louis.” Solid, but not the spoiling sort. Immovable, like an old oak tree.
On Saturday mornings, he would say, “Come on, my little wolves,” and take them fishing, to the fields, or into the woods. He gave them life lessons.
They returned one evening.
They had shiny stones, mud-filled boots, cold-red faces, moss-covered arms, and a baby bird that had fallen from its nest.
“Mommy, we’re going to save it!” Excited, Maxime yelled.
I remained silent. All I saw was them fussing over a shoebox lined with bread crumbs, dried leaves, and wool. The bird did not make it. But I realized that night that my kids had inherited compassion, which is a precious quality.
They buried the small animal beneath the ancient apple tree with the assistance of their grandfather. They used twigs to create a crucifix and embellished it with wildflowers.
“Kids, this is life,” he muttered. “After shedding a tear or two, we continue to love.”
Years passed. Too soon. Camille started drawing on everything, even cloudy windows, walls, and stones. Where others saw drab, she saw color.
Tall as a poplar, Hugo learned how to operate the tractor and fix fences. He didn’t say much, but he always had a point.
With her innate kindness, Zoé helped injured animals, rescued stray kittens, and listened to the elderly.
Maxime, on the other hand, wrote. Stories, poems. “The world was more beautiful on paper,” he claimed.
When I was a kid, my father had never showed such tenderness as he did as he saw them develop. Although he didn’t say much, his deeds spoke loudly.
Then Louis died one February morning while the roofs were still covered with snow. calmly. as he had lived. His hand in mine, surrounded by his four treasures.
He planted a tall cedar with the kids, and we buried him beneath it. They buried promises, drawings, and letters in the ground.
Camille whispered that day:
“We’ll continue, Papy. We swear.
They also fulfilled their promise.
As a visual artist, Camille’s work has been shown as far as Paris. With perseverance and pride, Hugo took over a tiny organic farm close to the hamlet. Zoé started a modest clinic for naturopathy. And thousands of readers are now inspired by Maxime, which was published at the age of twenty.
The house from their childhood, which is still intact, was changed. Remodeled and expanded, but never losing its essence—the essence of a house erected on the rubble of desolation and strengthened by courage, love, and unity.
My grandkids go through it today. They laugh as they slide down the slope behind the garden, play the games their parents used to play, and climb the apple trees.
I watch them while enjoying a cup of warm tea on the patio. And I believe I may have done the correct thing by ignoring my anger and concentrating on what was important.
I didn’t turn into a hero. Only a mom. Four miracles were delivered to an ordinary woman by life.
And I’ll respond as follows if they ever inquire about how I survived:
“Because you were valuable.” Since genuine love never ends. It changes. It is transmitted.
