Chapter 13 Sage
SAGE
I got hit by a truck.
My entire body has been peeled apart, rearranged, and stitched back together by someone who wasn’t entirely sure what they were doing. I feel like Frankenstein’s monster, except the monster is my vagina.
And the rest of me. Everything aches. Everything is sore. There is not a single position that feels like relief.
For a second, I don’t move. I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember where I am and why my body feels like this. Then it hits me.
“Oh,” I croak, my voice dry and wrecked. “Right. That.”
Labor. Triplets. Cool. Love that for me.
I close my eyes again, like maybe if I don’t acknowledge it, my body will reset itself, and I’ll wake up somewhere else—preferably not in a hospital bed with what feels like internal bruising in places I didn’t even know existed.
That fantasy lasts about three seconds, because something makes a noise.
Not loud. Not urgent. Just… there. Soft. Small. My eyes snap open. I turn my head—and freeze.
There are three bassinets in the room.
I’m not sure why it keeps hitting me in waves, but for a second, my brain refuses to process it, like it’s too much information to take in all at once. Then it catches up, slamming into me with the same overwhelming force that everything else has had in the last twenty-four hours.
My babies. They’re here. All of them.
I push myself up too fast and immediately regret it as pain flares low in my body, sharp enough to make me hiss. “Okay,” I mutter under my breath. “Okay, we’re not doing that again.”
I move more slowly this time, bracing carefully as I shift upright, my muscles protesting every inch of the motion. Once I’m up, though, I don’t care anymore, because they’re right there—close enough that I can actually see them.
Three tiny humans. Mine.
“Holy shit,” I whisper. They’re so small.
I knew they would be. Everyone kept saying that—early, multiples, expect small—but knowing something and seeing it are two completely different things.
They’re swaddled tight, little faces barely visible above the blankets, each one breathing in soft, steady rhythms that make my chest feel too tight.
“They’re good,” a voice says gently from the doorway.
I turn, blinking blearily as a nurse steps in, smiling like she’s seen this exact moment a hundred times before. “Morning. I’m Rose.”
“Hi,” I say, because that feels like the correct response, even though my brain is still catching up to everything else.
“You gave us a bit of a show last night,” she says lightly, moving further into the room. “But these three? They’re strong.”
I look back at them, something twisting in my chest. “Why aren’t they in the NICU?” I ask, because I definitely remember that being a thing.
“They were evaluated,” Rose says, checking one of the bassinets with practiced ease. “But they’re doing well enough that it would’ve been overkill. We’ve got babies in there who really need the resources. Yours just need monitoring, warmth, and you.”
Relief hits so hard I almost laugh. Or cry. Maybe both. “That’s… good.”
“Very good.” She glances at me. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I lost a fight with a bear,” I say honestly.
She laughs, like that’s not the first time she’s heard that. “Yeah, that tracks. Let’s get you through the next part.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “What’s the next part?”
She smiles. “Feeding them.”
I stare at her. Then at the babies. Then back at her. “Oh. Great.”
Rose just laughs again, completely unbothered. And something tells me I’m about to be very, very humbled.
“Alright. We’ll start with one and rotate through. You don’t have to be perfect at this—no one is on day one.”
“Cool,” I mutter. “Love being bad at something involving tiny, fragile humans.”
She smiles like I’m charming instead of spiraling. “You’ll be fine.”
I am not convinced.
She helps me adjust the bed first, lifting it just enough so I’m more upright, then shoving about six pillows behind my back like she’s building structural support for a collapsing building. Which, honestly, feels accurate.
Then she places the first baby—my baby—into my arms, guiding my hold before I can panic and do something stupid like drop him or hold him like he’s made of glass.
“Support his head,” she says gently, adjusting my hand. “There you go.”
There I go. Holding a human. A whole person. Mine. Mine to take care of forever, mine to feed, mine to house, mine to—”
Quietly, she asks, “Mama, where’d you go?”
“Oh my God,” I whisper, because apparently I’ve lost the ability to say anything else.
He’s warm. That’s the first thing I notice when I’m not spiraling.
Warm and real and heavier than he looks, even though he’s still so small it feels like he should weigh nothing. His face scrunches slightly, his mouth moving in little searching motions that make something in my chest squeeze painfully.
“He’s looking for it,” Rose says.
“For what?” I ask, because I know the answer, and I hate it.
She raises a brow. “Food, Mama.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Okay. We can do this. Probably.”
Rose doesn’t laugh at me this time, just smiles. She guides me through it step-by-step, positioning him, adjusting me, explaining things in a calm, steady voice like she’s done this a thousand times. “Bring him closer. Let him find it.”
I do. I try, anyway.
Nothing about this feels natural. My body feels like it belongs to someone else right now—sore and heavy and uncooperative—and trying to coordinate anything on top of that feels borderline impossible. “This is weird.”
“It is weird,” she agrees easily. “You’re both learning.”
That doesn’t make me feel better.
The baby fusses slightly, his little face scrunching more as he tries—and fails—to latch properly.
“I’m not learning. I’m failing,” I mutter.
“You are not,” Rose says firmly. “He’s figuring it out, and so are you. Give him a second.”
Eventually, it works. There is no way to describe the sensation. “Oh.”
Rose smiles. “There you go.”
I huff out a weak laugh, watching him as he settles into it, tiny and focused like this is the most important job he’s ever had. Which, I guess, it is. “Okay,” I murmur, more to myself than anyone else. “Okay. We’re doing it.”
By the time I get through all three of them, I’m sweating. My body is done. Completely done. I slump back into the pile of pillows like gravity has suddenly doubled, my muscles giving out all at once. “This is insane.”
Rose laughs, completely unbothered, like I didn’t just go through the most humbling experience of my life. “You did great.”
“I did… something,” I correct weakly.
All three of them are back in their bassinets now, their little faces calmer, their movements slower, like they’re settling after the effort. One of them lets out a soft, sleepy sound, and something in my chest tightens again. Not panic this time. Not fear.
Something softer. “I made three people. On accident.”
Rose glances at me, smiling like that’s the most normal realization in the world. “You did. And that’s amazing. Just imagine what you could do on purpose.”
I snort at that, and even laughing hurts. “I’d be unstoppable.”
“You are. Never forget that.”
I stare at them a second longer, letting that sink in, before something else cuts through my brain with surprising urgency. “Do I get to eat?”
She blinks at me, then laughs. “Yes, you get to eat.”
“Thank God. I’m starving. I feel like I haven’t eaten in years.”
“That would be because you haven’t eaten since before labor,” she says, already heading for the door. “I’ll check on your breakfast.”
“Rose,” I call, my voice full of sincerity. “You’re my favorite person right now.”
She grins. “I’ll take it.” And then she’s gone.
I stare at the door for a second, then back at the babies, then back at the door like I’m making sure she actually meant it. Because if she lied to me about food, I will not recover from that betrayal.
A few minutes later, she’s back with a tray that might as well be a five-star meal for how fast I sit up.
“Oh my God.” Eggs. Toast. Something that looks like potatoes. Juice. I don’t care what it is. I just care that it exists.
“Careful,” Rose says as she sets it down. “You might want to pace yourself—”
Not a chance. I dig in like I’ve never eaten before in my life, shoveling food into my mouth with zero regard for dignity, manners, or basic human decency. “This is amazing.”
“That’s the hunger talking.”
“I stand by it.” I don’t stop until the plate is basically empty, leaning back with a groan that is only partially dramatic. “I feel like a person again.”
Rose chuckles. “Good. That’s the goal.”
The knock doesn’t even register as a warning. It’s just there—two quick taps—and before I can process that someone is about to come in, the door opens.
Leigh steps into the room, and relief hits immediately.
“Oh my God,” I breathe, pushing myself a little more upright despite the protest from every part of my body. “Hi. Thank—”
Then I see who’s behind her.
Connor.
“Surprise,” Leigh says, a little too brightly, like she already knows this might have been a mistake but she’s committed to it anyway.
I stare at her. Then at him. Then back at her. “Leigh. What the hell?”
“I thought—” she starts, already wincing. “I just thought you might want… support.”
Support. Right.
Connor looks wrecked. There’s something frantic in his eyes, something wired and desperate, like he’s been running on adrenaline and hasn’t come down yet. His gaze moves past me almost immediately, locking onto the bassinets.
And then I’m gone from his attention entirely.
“Oh my God,” he says, stepping into the room like he’s being pulled. “Sage—”
“No,” I say immediately, because I can already see exactly where this is going. “Connor, wait—”
He doesn’t.
He goes straight to them. All three of them. His hands hover like he’s afraid to touch anything, his expression shifting from shock to something else—something bigger, brighter, overwhelming in a way that makes my stomach twist.
“They’re—” he starts, his voice breaking. “They’re mine.”
I close my eyes for half a second, because no. “Connor—”
“It’s a miracle,” he keeps going, like I didn’t say anything at all. “They told me I couldn’t—after the accident, they said—”
He exhales hard, like he’s been holding that breath for years.
“I thought I’d never—” He lets out a shaky laugh. “Jesus, Sage, I thought my life was just going to be nothing. No legacy, no—”
“Connor!”
He turns to me, eyes bright, like this is the best thing that’s ever happened to him. “They look like me,” he says, like that settles it. “Don’t they? I mean—look at them—”
“They’re not yours.” The words come out flat. Blunt. There’s no softness in me right now, no space to cushion it or ease him into the truth.
The room goes still.
Connor stares at me like I just said something completely incomprehensible. Then he laughs. Not because it’s funny, but because it sounds ridiculous to him. “Okay, Sage. I get it. You’re tired. You’re overwhelmed. This is a lot, I know that, but—”
“I’m not overwhelmed,” I cut in, my voice sharper now. “They’re not yours.”
His expression shifts, not all at once, but enough that something in my chest tightens. “No. That’s not—no. I know they’re mine.”
“You’re wrong,” I say, exhaustion hitting me all over again. “Connor—”
“I am their father,” he snaps, louder this time, the edge in his voice slicing through the room.
And just like that, all three babies start crying.
“Connor,” Leigh says quickly, stepping forward, her voice low and urgent. “Hey—hey, let’s maybe step out for a second—”
“I’m not leaving,” he says, not even looking at her. His eyes are still locked on me. “Not when she’s talking like a crazy person.”
I close my eyes for a second. Just one. Because I am too tired for this. Too sore. Too everything. “Leigh,” I say, opening them again. “You brought him in. You get him out.”
Her face tightens, guilt flashing across it as she reaches for his arm. “Connor, come on,” she says gently. “Let’s give her a minute—”
He doesn’t move. The babies keep crying. My head starts pounding.
I swear to God, if he doesn’t leave in the next five seconds, I might actually lose what little sanity I have left. The crying drills straight into my bones. How the hell am I going to do this?
My entire body tenses, instinct kicking in even through the exhaustion, even through the fog that hasn’t fully lifted since I woke up. “Connor,” I say, my voice lower now but no less sharp. “You’re scaring my children. Leave.”
“I’m not—” he starts, his voice still tight, still edged with something that feels a little too close to anger.
“They’re crying,” I cut in, because I don’t have the patience to argue logic right now. “So yes. You are. Go.”
Leigh steps in again, more firmly this time, her hand tightening around his arm. “Connor, come on. Let’s step out. Just for a minute.”
“This isn’t over,” he says.
I almost laugh. “Yeah,” I say dryly. “No kidding.”
Leigh doesn’t give him time to argue again. She nudges him toward the door, guiding him out with a mix of gentle persistence and barely contained urgency. “I’ll be right back—”
“Don’t rush.” I almost tell her not to bother coming back. But I want to know what the hell she was thinking by bringing him here.
The door closes behind them. The silence doesn’t come with it. The babies are still crying.
“Hey,” I murmur, lifting one of them into my arms. “Hey, it’s okay.”
We are not okay. But we’re going to pretend we are.
One of the other babies quiets a little, the sound tapering off into softer, uneven breaths, and I cling to that like it’s a major victory.
“See?” I mutter. “We’re getting there.” I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince. Probably myself.
Slowly, the room settles. The cries fade into smaller sounds, then into quiet, then into the soft, steady rhythm of breathing that I’m starting to recognize as normal.
I sag back into the pillows, one baby still tucked against me, my entire body humming with exhaustion all over again. “That was a disaster.”
And this is only the beginning.