When my sister, Maelis, went into labor, I was halfway across the state at a motorcycle rally. She’d begged me not to cancel, swore she’d be fine, said she had time.

She didn’t.

Three beautiful babies came into this world—and she didn’t make it out.

I remember holding those tiny, squirmy bodies in the NICU, still smelling like gasoline and leather. No plan. No clue. But I looked at them—Roux, Brin, and Callum—and I just knew. I wasn’t going anywhere.

I traded late-night rides for late-night feedings. My crew at the shop covered for me so I could make preschool pickup. I learned how to braid Brin’s hair, how to calm Roux’s meltdowns, how to get Callum to eat something besides buttered pasta. I stopped riding long distance. Sold two bikes. Built bunk beds with my bare hands.

Five years. Five birthdays. Five winters of flu season and stomach bugs. I wasn’t perfect, but I showed up. Every single day.

And then, out of nowhere—he showed up.

Biological father. Not on the birth certificates. Never visited Maelis once during her pregnancy. According to her, he’d said triplets didn’t fit his lifestyle.

But now? He wanted them.

He didn’t come alone. He brought a social worker named Marianne who took one look at my oil-stained coveralls and said I was “not the long-term developmental environment these children require.”

I couldn’t believe it.

Marianne toured our small but clean home. Saw the art the kids made on the fridge. Saw their bikes in the yard. The tiny boots lined up by the door. She smiled politely. Made notes. I saw her eyes linger a little too long on the tattoo on my neck.

The worst part? The kids didn’t understand. Roux hid behind me. Callum cried. Brin asked, “Is that man going to be our new daddy?”

I said, “No one’s taking you. Not without a fight.”

And now… the hearing’s next week. I’ve got a lawyer. A good one. Expensive as hell, but worth it. My shop’s barely breaking even because I’m juggling everything, but I’d sell my last wrench to keep them.

I don’t know what the judge will decide.

The night before the hearing, I couldn’t sleep. I sat at the kitchen table with Roux’s drawing in my hand—me, holding the kids’ hands, standing in front of our little house with the sun and clouds in the corner. Stick figure art, sure, but I swear, I looked happier in that crayon drawing than I’d ever looked in real life.

That morning, I dressed in a button-up shirt I hadn’t worn since Maelis’s funeral. Brin came out of her room and said, “Uncle Dez, you look like a church man.”

“Let’s hope the judge likes church men,” I said, forcing a laugh.

The courtroom felt like another planet. Everything beige and polished. Vin sat across from me in a tailored suit, trying to look paternal. He even had a photo of the triplets in a store-bought frame, like that would prove something.

Marianne gave her report. She didn’t lie, but she didn’t soften it either. She mentioned “limited educational resources,” “concerns about emotional development,” and, yeah—“lack of conventional family structure.”

I clenched my fists under the table.

Then it was my turn.

I told the judge everything. From the moment I got the call about Maelis to the time Brin threw up on my back during a long car ride and I didn’t even flinch. I told him about Roux’s speech delay and how I got a second job just to afford a therapist. I told him how Callum finally learned to swim because I promised him a burger every Friday if he didn’t quit.

The judge looked at me and asked, “Do you feel equipped to continue raising three children alone?”

I swallowed. Thought about lying. Then I didn’t.