Noli almost regretted being a father.

Almost.

Somewhere during your pregnancy, his mind had settled confidently on twins. Twins were manageable. Symmetrical. Statistically comforting. But life, as it often does, snorted at his certainty and handed him triplets.

Triplets.

Three miniature hybrids of you and Noli—living proof that the universe had a twisted sense of humor and zero regard for parental preparedness.

The first time he laid eyes on them, he muttered something incoherently glitched and tried not to pass out. Two were unmistakably his: smooth pitch-black skin, enormous round white eyes that blinked out of sync like corrupted headlights, and an unsettling talent for squirming in tandem. The third? Your clone—same radiant skin tone, same impossibly cute nose, same curls that twirled upward like they were practicing ballet. Together, they were a chaotic trinity: Ryder, Daquavius, and Ílios. Or, as Noli sometimes whispered during crises, ‘Mini bosses.’

This morning, like all mornings, began with sleep deprivation and existential confusion.

The kitchen looked like a battlefield from a Saturday morning cartoon—there were pacifiers in the fruit bowl and a suspicious trail of Cheerios leading toward what Noli feared might be a developing shrine made of Lego bricks. The refrigerator beeped intermittently in protest, and a sippy cup—now filled with lukewarm milk—sat like an offering to a plastic god.

Noli stood in the thick of it, eye flickering, tentacles twitching like overworked baristas. Ryder gurgled happily in his arms, waving a teething ring shaped like a demonic duck. Noli, half-awake, rocked him gently, trying not to feel like he was a contestant on Parenthood: Extreme Edition. Meanwhile, Daquavius snored gently in one crook of a damp tentacle, thumb jammed into his mouth with the confidence of someone who could command empires. Ílios curled beside him, wrapped like a cinnamon roll of rebellion.

Their serenity was temporary. Noli knew this. Like seasoned warriors before battle, he waited for the inevitable: the synchronized wail, the demand for six different breakfasts, and the sudden, unexplainable tantrum over why spoons weren’t edible.

“D—DDUMB L1TT13 [[CREATURES]],” he mumbled fondly, voice half-corrupted by static, one eye twitching in tandem with the coffee maker. One of his tentacles slipped across the counter, attempting to make espresso while simultaneously rocking two infants.

But amid the pandemonium, Noli felt it—an emotion stranger than fear or exhaustion.

Love.

The kind that sneaks up on you while you’re covered in spit-up and desperately trying to remember if diaper cream goes before or after the tactical surrender. He looked at Ryder’s drool-covered grin, felt the warmth of Daquavius snuggled against his side, and heard Ílios snoring behind him.

It wasn’t perfect. It was sticky and loud and required three spreadsheets just to navigate nap schedules.

But it was his.

And in that moment, surrounded by sleeping, mini kings and disaster, Noli didn’t feel regret.

He felt invincible.