My mom always wanted a big family. But after years of trying to get pregnant, the doctors ran all kinds of tests and found that her reproductive organs were deformed and nonfunctional. They could do nothing for her. So she and her husband resolved to be a wonderful aunt and uncle and to travel the world. But it was not to be; several years later, the marriage dissolved.
Heartbroken, my mother packed her things and moved several states away for a fresh start. Before too long, she met my dad. Handsome and wild, he swept her off her feet with his charm. Within months they wed.
Years went by, and my mother suddenly fell very ill. When the doctor told her she suffered from morning sickness, she nearly fell out of her chair! The child of her heart, for whom she had longed and prayed through many years, the child she had accepted she would never hold in her arms, was somehow growing inside her. The doctors couldn’t give her an answer as to how I came to exist, so they told her to enjoy her miracle baby. And yet, mere weeks after my birth, the sickness came again. We are Irish twins, my brother and I: siblings born less than a year apart. And then, we two became three: Irish triplets, three siblings born in under two years, my brother and sister and I, the children of my mother’s heart.