Why do you want five all at once?
He stares at her, utterly horrified.
Have you lost your mind? Did something happen? Please, dont scare me! Only moments ago, she had revealed her wish: she wanted to foster five children from the local care home.
Why five? he asks, his voice wavering.
Because theyre siblings, she replies quietly, all from the same family.
No other options, really, now that youve got the idea in your head? he mutters, clutching at straws.
No, none.
At first, he thought she was joking, but soon hes pacing the living room, rubbing his temples.
Where on earth will they all sleep? he manages to say.
Here, with us.
Weve only got three rooms, and one of those is my study.
Then well move your study into our bedroom, she answers, unwavering.
Shes come prepared for this; he knows her well enough to expect as much. Every question, she has considered in advance.
Hed felt this coming, deep down, ever since their years of heartbreak, the failed rounds of IVF, all the tears and long winters of grief. When she began volunteering at the childrens home on the edge of town, he knew exactly how things would end upthough hed kept telling himself her volunteering, this valuable, worthy work, would give her some peace.
For the last couple of years, shes been involved at the care home, vanished on holidays and half her wages spent on necessities for the children there. Shes found a group of like-minded women; once, she even dragged him along. He mowed the lawns, cleared garden beds. Children dashed around, shouting and laughing. She knew almost all of them by name. In his heart, he was relievedshe seemed lighter, more at ease, occupied by something bigger than her pain.
And now shes come to him with this: five children, three girls and two boys, all siblings, left entirely alone. Shes certain they could take them in. Fostering, at first. Ultimately, she wants to adopt.
Fostering can feel a bit like playing pretend, like building a ship in a bottle, knowing itll never sailbut it does look nice on your shelf, all shiny details. You can always pack it away, forget about it, leave it to gather dust.
Almost against his will, he mumbles, And are the children healthy?
They are, more or less, she concedes. But its not without complications.
Hes braced for complications. He just isnt braced for reality: five kids, aged one, two, four, five, and seven, parents dead after a fire in a half-abandoned house, out celebrating with friends gone wrong.
They arrive looking every bit like children born by accident, already neglected. Thin, wary, far too fragile for their ageseven after a few months of regular meals and safety.
Their days blur into endless paperwork, assessments, background checks, medical forms, parenting workshops. It all feels surreal.
She leaves her job, taking extended leave to care for the new arrivals. The house is suddenly a construction site. Cots and toy boxes take over the hallways. Every evening he picks his way through mountains of shopping bags, reheats leftovers, eats silently.
She comes home late, makes tea, and they speak almost not at all.
His mother arrives in a hurry from another city, lips pursed tight. She pulls her daughter-in-law into the spare room; they emerge hours later, both with red-rimmed eyes. His mother hugs him tightly.
Help your wife, shes a saint. You can count on me too, you know! Im still spry, you should see me with the hula hoop!
He pulls back, incredulous. Mum, never mind the hula hoop! FIVE children! Did you hear?
Oh, calm down, she chuckles. I had three of you, all close in age. Whats one more? Or two? And as for the hula hoopwell, a womans youth lasts as long as she keeps twirling it!
That night, lying in bed holding his wife, he wonders: what will become of their cuddled evenings? How do you continue to kiss slowly, luxuriously, when there are tiny children sleeping just beyond the wall? Children who arent even yours, who wake in tears, always need something, the never-ending nappies, for goodness’ sake
Hes most afraid of the nappies. He pictures the towering piles of used nappies, wiping out their savingsat least, only the two youngest need them.
Except, in reality, its four of them.
The first two years pass in a fog. They barely sleep. He takes as much time off as he can, then they sell the flat theyd rented out for their future and start hunting for a bigger house. His wife once made him tea with salt and pepper, gulped it down, then staggered out on wobbly legs. He watched the whole thing, frozen in shock.
It feels endless, this madness. He curses the day he let her bring the children home and upturn their lives. The children werent homelessthe care home was decent, shed said, and hed seen for himself, plenty of resources, professionals at hand, all paid for. Now they bleed money every month on home visits from speech therapists (far too hectic to drive each child about town), physiotherapy, endless massages, medicines, appointments. No hope of saving for retirement. However much he earns, it simply disappears.
His mum looks on, her eyes sad but gentle, reminding him, Theyll grow up. You just need to hold on. Sometimes, he snaps back, Well, I grew up. Has it made your life easier? Coming all this way to look after another poorly child? Do you remember your hula hoop days?
She laughs, flipping pancakes. Why do I need a hula hoop, love? Your family keeps me youngyou lot wont let me grow old!
Then, somehow, life finds its routine. He doesnt notice the moment it all changes, but suddenly, nappies are gone. The children brush their teeth without being chased around. Illnesses are less frequentor at least dont bother him as much. The littlest girl wraps her arms around his neck and whispers, Daddy, my daddy, youre my daddy, patting his cheek, and suddenly he can sleep through the night, only waking once or twice to comfort a child. His wife laughs again, her old laugh.
He resumes traveling for work, sees other womenpolished, carefree, unattached.
But coming home, as soon as he steps through the door, a giddy storm of children crash into him, clinging, shouting, wrestling for hugs. He buries his face in their golden hair, inhaling that sweet childlike scent, mixed with the fragrance of his wife, and cant help but beam like a fool. Lying beside her at night, arms entwined, he realises that, no matter your resistance, life has a habit of putting you exactly where you belong. Nobody really knows what all this is for, whos saving whom.
But he knows one thing for certain.
This is his wife.
These are his children.
And nappiesnappies are far from the worst thing life can hand you.
