LOVING ME AND MY QUADRUPLETS

Flight 7489

**Chapter 1

Anna's POV**

The TV was still on when I heard it. 2 p.m. sharp. I hadn't even meant to watch the news — I only turned it on for background noise while I folded laundry, something to fill the silence Vince left every time he traveled for business. The house always felt too quiet when he was gone, like it was holding its breath until he came back through the door, dropped his bag, and called out my name.

Flight 7489.

I don't know how long I stood there before the words actually landed. *Plane crash.* The number kept flashing across the screen like it was mocking me, and my mind scrambled to tell myself it was a coincidence. It had to be. Vince flew out this morning. He'd kissed my forehead before he left, told me he'd call the second he landed, promised he'd bring something home for the girls like he always did, even for a two-day trip.

Flight 7489.

That was his flight. I'd written it down myself on the little notepad by the fridge, the one where I kept track of pediatrician appointments and grocery lists and, apparently, the exact flight that would take my husband from me.

The remote slipped out of my hand. I don't even remember it falling — just the sound, distant and unimportant, like it belonged to someone else's house, someone else's life. My whole body went cold, chills crawling down my spine so fast I had to grip the edge of the couch to stay standing.

*This can't be happening. Not to us. Not now. Not when everything was finally starting to feel steady.*

I thought about the morning. Nine a.m., maybe earlier. I'd been washing the dishes, half-listening to the girls babbling in their bouncers, the radio playing something soft in the background, when a plate slipped from my hands and shattered against the tile. I remember staring at the pieces for a second too long before I bent to pick them up — and then the pain, sharp and sudden, a shard slicing across my palm. Blood welled up fast, dripping onto the broken porcelain, and my heart had started racing for no reason I could explain at the time. I'd sat down right there on the kitchen floor, breathing hard, telling myself it was nothing. Just a cut. Just clumsy hands. Just an ordinary Tuesday.

Now I understood. My body had known before my mind did.

I don't know how long I sat frozen in front of the television before my phone rang. I almost didn't answer — some part of me didn't want to know, wanted to stay in that last stretch of not-knowing forever, where Vince was still somewhere in the sky, still fine, still coming home. But I did answer.

"Anna—" Marcus's voice broke before he even got my name out fully. I didn't need him to say anything else. I already knew. I think I'd known since the plate hit the floor.

"No," I whispered. "No, don't— don't say it. Please don't say it."

But he did. And I heard myself say goodbye to my husband out loud for the first time, even though he wasn't there to hear it, even though it made no sense, even though nothing about any of this made sense. I was sobbing so hard I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only picture Vince's face — the way he'd smiled at me that morning like it was any other day, like we had a thousand more mornings ahead of us, like forever was still something we were allowed to plan for.

*Mandy. Michelle. Mabel. Mirabel.*

Six months old. Four tiny lives that depended on the two of us, and now it was just me. Just me, alone, in a house that suddenly felt too big and too empty and too quiet all over again — except this time the silence wasn't temporary. This time it was permanent.

*How am I supposed to do this alone?***

The room tilted. My phone slipped from my fingers the same way the plate had that morning, and everything went dark.

When I opened my eyes again, I was lying in bed. My throat felt raw, like I'd been screaming, though I didn't remember doing that. Slowly, the room came into focus — my sister's face first, pale and swollen from crying, then Elizabeth, my closest friend, sitting on the edge of the mattress with red-rimmed eyes. And Marcus. Vince's brother, standing near the window with his back to me, shoulders shaking in a way that told me he'd been crying too, even if he didn't want me to see it.

Nobody said anything for a long moment. What was there to say? Words felt small and useless against something this big.

I could hear the babies fussing softly somewhere down the hall — my mother must have been trying to settle them — but I couldn't bring myself to go to them yet. I couldn't look at my daughters and see pieces of him staring back at me. Not today. Maybe not for a long time.

Eventually, my family filtered out, murmuring things about food, about rest, about *let her breathe.* Only Marcus and Elizabeth stayed behind.

I reached for the nightstand, where our wedding photo sat in its silver frame, and pulled it into my lap. Vince, laughing, one arm around my waist, the ocean behind us on the day we got married. I traced the edge of the glass with my thumb as I could somehow touch him through it, like enough pressure could pull him back into the room with me.

*How do I do this without you?*

I was still holding the photograph when Marcus finally turned around. His face was pale, his jaw tight in a way I'd never seen before — not even at the funeral for their own parents. This was different. This was the look of a man bracing himself to hand someone a weight he didn't want to carry either.

"Anna," he said carefully, as my name itself might break.

I looked up at him, waiting, some instinct in my chest already tightening before he even spoke.

"What about the oath?"

I froze.

The oath.