When I entered my front door, I didn’t hear the soothing buzz of a contented home or the soft cooing of babies. It was a visceral, jagged wall of sound, the kind of sobbing that has transcended from hunger to pure, gasping fatigue. While her sister Amber let out angry, frantic squeaks in between cries, one of my twin girls, Jade, was crying in a ragged pattern that suggested she had been at it for hours. A half-empty bottle was left on the couch, formula powder covered the granite counters like snow, and my husband, Brian, sat immobile with his elbows on his knees, gazing into an imaginary middle distance. The sight in the living room was a picture of complete home breakdown.
My parental instincts screamed as I dropped my handbag and ran passed him. Amber’s little fists were clenched so tightly that their knuckles were white, and Jade’s face was a blotchy, angry red when I lifted her from the cot. Whispering the frenzied, calming babble moms use to anchor their children in a storm, I rested them against my shoulders. I turned to face Brian as the screams eventually turned into deep, trembling gasps. I anticipated an apology, or maybe a frantic explanation about a diaper that wouldn’t go away or a missed nap. Rather, he said in a voice I didn’t recognize that we had to give them away while staring at me with horrifyingly flat eyes.
I briefly believed that he had simply lost his mind due to the stress of the day. We had battled for these kids for three years—three years of hormone shots, fertility doctors, and private prayers over unfavorable test results. Brian had clutched my hand so tightly I thought it might bruise when those two pink lines finally showed up and later when the ultrasound technician chuckled and informed us that we were expecting twins. He had supported me during a challenging pregnancy and the chaotic first month after the baby was delivered. However, he appeared to be a man who had made the decision to give up on his own life as he stood there in a shirt covered with coffee spills and spit-up.
There had been a different kind of problem at the beginning of the day. After stumbling on her back step, my mother had called, trembling and out of breath. Brian had said he could do it, even though I was hesitant to leave him alone with both babies for the first time. I had hurried to get ready to go to the hospital. With a fatherly pride, he had pushed up his chest and urged me to leave. I spent the afternoon in the ER, looking at my phone every few minutes expecting a distress signal that never materialized. The sole text that Brian had sent was a condescending “Fine, Willow. Relax.” However, I became aware that the stillness had been the sound of a complete psychological breakdown as I stood in my living room listening to him propose that we leave our girls behind.
When I saw a white travel mug on the side table that wasn’t ours, the real horror of the scenario became apparent. Denise, my mother-in-law, owned it. Denise frequently made blatantly obvious remarks about how “some people just aren’t meant to be parents,” and she had never been especially understanding of our infertility struggles. She had gazed at the twins with a distant interest that made my skin crawl when they arrived. The puzzle pieces fell into an unsettling pattern as Brian started talking. Not only had the sobbing overwhelmed him, but his mother had methodically demolished him.
Soon after I left, Denise had “stopped by.” When Jade spat up and Amber began to cry, she had discovered Brian in a typical new-parent panic. She had spent the afternoon spewing poison into his ear rather than offering him assistance or teaching him how to settle a nursery or burp a baby. They were in over their heads, she informed him. She informed him that having twins was a “natural disaster” that would ruin his marriage and future, not a blessing. Unforgivably, she informed him that she had already begun researching “family options,” a euphemism for adoption and temporary placement. She had treated our daughters like a faulty item that needed to be returned while sitting in our house.
Brian acknowledged that he lost his temper and scared himself by yelling in fury when Jade choked a little on some milk. Denise had persuaded him that he was dangerous and inept during that vulnerable moment. She presented abandonment as a kind deed. I felt a portion of my heart turn to ice as I heard my husband, the man who was meant to be my partner in everything, acknowledge that he had considered his mother’s recommendations. Not only had he failed an endurance test, but he had let someone else put a value on our kids’ possessions.
I made a decision that felt as sharp as a blade as I watched my sleeping kids, their chests rising and falling in the coordinated beat of innocence. I informed Brian that although we wouldn’t be giving anyone away, he would need to make a decision immediately about whether he wanted to be his mother’s son or a father. Not only was I upset, but I had had enough of the ambiguity. I insisted that he put the kids’ green blankets and enough formula in a bag for the evening. I was transporting them to my mother’s home, away from the poisonous atmosphere of a man who would even think about getting rid of them as a means to end a bad day.
Brian’s phone rang as we got to my mom’s porch. Denise was the one. When I instructed him to put it on speaker, her voice—bright, fragile, and completely shameless—came through. She advised Brian not to allow me to “shame him” for acknowledging that the girls were “too much.” I didn’t wait for Brian to respond. I informed her that she would never see my kids again as I moved closer to the phone. After attempting to make abandonment seem plausible, I told her that she didn’t get to call herself family. I assured her that the only person she would hear from going forward would be a lawyer.
The only true calm I had experienced all day was the silence that ensued on the other end of the line. I couldn’t afford to console Brian just now, yet he stood there looking broken and defenseless. The two small lives I was holding were my first focus. I realized that the fight for my family had only just begun when I brought Jade and Amber into my mother’s house and the door snapped shut behind me. I had come to understand that being a mother is about being the ferocious, uncompromising barrier that separates your children from anyone, including their own father, who would dare to regard them as anything less than a miracle. It’s not only about love and feeding them late at night. Denise was a thing of the past, but Brian still had a long path to redemption ahead of him. My daughters would only ever be with individuals who understood that “too much” was just the right amount of love after that.