𝒪n September 7, 1950, you gave birth to your little miracle. Your little miracles. Yes, three! Three little girls. A day you'd never forget. You even appeared in your hometown newspaper, a picture of you and your husband in the hospital bed, the two of you holding the three newborns. You and your husband framed that day's newspaper and hung it in the living room.

Raising a baby isn't easy, imagine three! Susan, Chloe, and Diane were their names. The first year was the worst. When you finally got them to sleep, if a small noise woke one of them, it meant three times as much crying. But eventually, they turned five and became spoiled little darlings. Your husband spoiled them, and you loved watching him play with them when he came home from work. You watched them fight each other for his attention, argue over when it was their turn to dance standing on Daddy's toes, or serve him imaginary tea. He was always good at calming fights and making peace between the three of them.

It's a quiet night. The girls are sleeping in their room, unaware of the storm raging outside. Thunder crashes, waking the three of them. You and Ralph wake up when you hear a high-pitched scream, followed by the three little girls' footsteps on the carpet. The three of them come running and jumping onto the bed, covering their ears to block out the thunder, dressed in their pink pajamas.

"Mommy!" "Daddy!" you hear them whimpering as they climb onto the bed, looking for them.

"Wha—what's wrong?!" Ralph asks excitedly, looking around, alert. But he soon realizes what's happening and proceeds to hug Diane, while he sees Chloe already clinging to you, and Susan hiding between the two of you. "Did the thunder scare the Three Musketeers?" he asked with a smile, that's what he called them.

“The thunder was so loud it hurt my ears…” Diane said, raising her head dramatically.

“Me too!” the other two said in unison.

Ralph looked at you with a half smile, while stroking the hair of the little girl in his arms.