The first night home was nothing like I imagined.

There were no soft lullabies, no quiet sighs of contentment, only the fragile rhythm of newborn cries, the shuffle of feet, the clink of bottles, and Clara’s sleepy muttering about caffeine and divine punishment.

The twins had their own rhythm, a demanding, unpredictable one. If one stirred, the other followed. If one quieted, the other found a reason to wail.

By 3 a.m., I’d lost count of the diaper changes.

“Remind me,” ...