LOVING ME AND MY QUADRUPLETS

The Woman with Four Babies

Chapter 2 — Pascal's POV

I hated crowded places.

The noise, the endless movement of people pushing shopping carts, children crying from every corner of the store, the fluorescent lights that hummed just a little too loud — all of it gave me a headache within minutes of walking through the door. If it wasn't necessary, I never stepped foot in a supermarket. That was what staff were for. That was what money was for. I hadn't pushed a shopping cart in years.

But my refrigerator was nearly empty, my housekeeper was away visiting family for the week, and I refused to let my assistant handle something as mundane as buying groceries — the last time I'd tried that, I'd ended up with a fridge full of things I didn't recognize and nothing I actually wanted. So there I was, at nine in the evening, cap pulled low over my eyes, hoping no one would recognize me long enough to ask for a photo or, worse, try to pitch me a business idea in the cereal aisle.

I moved quickly, grabbing the essentials — coffee, eggs, something resembling vegetables — and made my way toward the baby section near the back of the store. My head of logistics had just welcomed a son, and I wanted to bring something over before the week ended. I didn't know the first thing about babies. I figured I'd find something soft, expensive-looking, and call it thoughtful.

That was when I saw her.

A young woman stood a few feet away, comparing two tins of baby formula like the decision carried the weight of the world. She looked exhausted in a way that went beyond a bad night's sleep — the kind of tired that settles into someone's bones over weeks, maybe months. Dark circles sat beneath her eyes, and though she was clearly trying to hold herself together, there was something underneath her expression she couldn't quite manage to hide.

Beside her stood another young woman, pushing a stroller — the wide, double-wide kind built for more than one child.

Curious despite myself, I slowed as I passed and glanced inside.

My eyes widened.

Four babies. Quadruplets, all bundled up, two asleep, two fussing quietly against their blankets.

No wonder she looked like she hadn't slept in a year.

She reached for another tin on the shelf, and her hand trembled — from exhaustion, I assumed — knocking several containers to the floor. They crashed loudly, rolling in different directions across the tile, drawing a few irritated glances from shoppers who clearly had somewhere better to be. She flinched at the noise, glancing around with the kind of embarrassment that told me this wasn't the first hard moment she'd had that day.

I didn't think. I just walked over.

"Let me help you."

She looked up, startled, like she hadn't expected anyone to stop for her. For a brief moment our eyes actually met, and something about it caught me off guard. There was pain in those eyes — real pain, the kind someone tries very hard to bury under politeness and forced composure, but it leaks out anyway, in the corners, in the way she blinked a little too fast, like she was fighting something back.

"Thank you," she said quietly, already crouching to help gather the mess.

I crouched beside her, stacking the tins back onto the shelf in no particular order, close enough now to notice the faint shake still in her fingers. "These are all for your babies?" I asked, more to fill the silence than anything else, offering a small smile.

She nodded. "Yes."

Just one word. But it carried something heavier than the question deserved, like even that small answer cost her something she didn't have much left of.

"Anna! The girls are getting fussy," the other woman called out, glancing over as the stroller rocked gently under her hand.

*Anna.* So that was her name. I turned it over once in my mind before I could stop myself.

She stood quickly, taking the shopping basket from me with a quiet, "I'm sorry — thank you so much for helping me."

"It's nothing," I said, though it didn't feel like nothing. It felt like I should say something else, ask something else, find some reason to keep her there a moment longer. But she was already turning away, already pulled back into the orbit of the four small lives waiting on her.

She offered a faint smile before hurrying toward the stroller, and I watched as she leaned down and gently lifted one of the babies out, cradling her against her shoulder with a tenderness that struck me harder than I expected. Whatever exhaustion had lived in her face a moment ago disappeared entirely, replaced by something soft and instinctive and completely unguarded — the kind of love that doesn't perform for anyone watching.

Whoever this woman was, she loved those children with everything she had left in her.

I stood there longer than I should have, watching her walk toward the exit with the other woman, the stroller, the four babies, until the automatic doors slid shut behind them. I didn't know her story. I didn't know why grief seemed to sit on her shoulders like something she'd stopped expecting to lift.

But something in me — something I couldn't quite name — told me this wasn't the last time our paths would cross.

I finished my shopping on autopilot after that, barely registering what landed in the cart. Half the things I bought I didn't even remember choosing. By the time I got home and set the bags down on the kitchen counter, I found myself replaying the whole thing on a loop. The way her hands shook. The way she said *thank you* like she wasn't used to anyone offering her help at all. The way she looked at those babies like they were the only reason she was still standing upright.

I told myself it didn't matter. She was a stranger. I had a company to run, board meetings in the morning, a life that didn't have room for distractions — especially not distractions with four children and a grief I had no business wondering about.

But that night, lying awake long after I should have been asleep, I kept seeing her face. The tired eyes. The sadness she'd tried so hard to hide and failed to completely bury.

I didn't know her name beyond *Anna.*

I didn't know where she lived, what had happened to her, or why she looked like a woman who'd already survived the worst thing that could happen to her — and was still bracing for more.

But somewhere in the dark, staring at the ceiling, I made a decision I couldn't fully explain even to myself.

I was going to find her again.