Then he said the words that would follow you for the rest of your lives.
“These children are a curse.”
The room went silent except for the babies crying. Your mother held two of you against her chest while the other three screamed from a basket lined with towels. She was too weak to stand, too exhausted to fight, and too heartbroken to understand how a man could walk away from his newborn children on the same night they entered the world.
Then Ramon did something worse. He went to the old dresser, lifted a cracked wooden jewelry box, and pulled out an envelope. Inside was the money your mother had saved for formula, medicine, and a doctor’s visit. It was only $312, but in that house, $312 was survival.
“Ramon,” your mother begged. “No. That money is for the babies.”
He shoved it into his pocket. “Consider it payment for all the trouble you gave me.”
Then he walked out. He did not kiss your mother. He did not touch your heads. He did not even look back from the doorway. He got into an old gray bus heading toward Chicago and disappeared into the night like a coward wearing the shape of a man.
Behind him, your mother was left with five newborn babies and no money. That was the first thing your father ever gave you: Absence.
