“Austin, oh my God,” I breathed, tears streaming down my face unchecked.

“You always make that funny scrunched-up face when you try to get up off the couch holding both babies,” he said, showing me by squeezing his eyes shut and biting his bottom lip.

Even with all the grief crashing over me, a choked, teary laugh broke out of my chest at his spot-on imitation of my daily misery.

“I saw you make that face yesterday, Mom, and you looked like you were about to fall over because you were so tired,” Austin murmured, looking down at his small hands.

“I thought if I stayed just four more weeks, I could carry the diaper bags and get the bottles until you were strong enough to carry them yourself.”