I lost my wife the day our triplets were born—ten years later, we found a box on our porch labeled, “To my beautiful daughters. Love, Mom.”

eyes filled immediately.

Cleo had come every Saturday during her pregnancy, Nina told me. She bought cinnamon rolls and sat by the window with one hand on her stomach, talking about names she loved and names I had vetoed.

Cleo had come every Saturday during her pregnancy.

“One morning she said,” Nina recounted, “‘If one birthday ever feels smaller than continue reading …