Raising three daughters alone hadn’t been easy, but I thought I’d mastered it with my oldest’s help. Then my neighbor called, furious about what she’d done. Someone was about to learn a lesson. And it wasn’t my daughter.
My name is Emma. I’m 38, and for nearly three years, I’ve been raising three daughters alone.
My oldest, Joan, is fifteen. My twins, Ginny and Debbie, are two.
I’ve become pretty good at handling emergencies:
Broken washing machines.
Midnight fevers.
Forgotten school projects.
You name it.
I’ve been raising three daughters alone.
But nothing prepared me for the afternoon my neighbor called.
“Emma, where are you?”
“At work, Mrs. Collins. What’s wrong?”
“Come home now and see what your daughter did!”
“Are my girls okay?”
Handling emergencies.
“They’re safe. But hurry!”
I abandoned my presentation and drove home.
***
Mrs. Collins stood outside my front door, furious.
“What happened?”
“Just go inside, Emma. You’ll see.”
