Laura
The morning started with the same bleakness that had settled over my life for weeks. The tiny motel room I was crammed into with two babies, Mrs. Abigail, and barely enough space to breathe was beginning to feel more like a prison than a refuge. My bed was a fold-out couch that creaked every time I moved. The twins’ cribs were improvised from travel bassinets wedged between suitcases. And let’s not even talk about Mrs. Abigail’s makeshift sleeping arrangement—a thin mattress on the floor that made her grumble every morning.
I stirred my lukewarm coffee with a sigh. The small table in the corner of the room was piled with baby bottles, half-packed diaper bags, and a few grocery receipts I still needed to figure out.
“Eat, dear,” Mrs. Abigail said, placing a plate of scrambled eggs
