The nuns at St. Mary’s tried to talk him out of it.
“Mr. Miller, nine infants… alone? You’re grieving. This is too much.”
Richard looked at the row of cribs, each holding a tiny life no one had claimed.
“Anne wanted a house full of children,” he said quietly. “She wanted noise. Laughter. Love. If I can give even a little of that to these girls… then her dream doesn’t die with her.”
He signed every paper.
Brought home nine car seats.
Turned the nursery into a sea of cribs.
The first months were pure chaos.
Feedings every two hours.
Diapers by the mountain.
Nights where all nine cried at once and Richard walked the halls rocking one after another until sunrise.
The town whispered he had gone mad.
Neighbors offered casseroles and side-eye.
But every time doubt crept in, Richard remembered Anne’s last words.
He kept going.
He learned to braid hair, bake cookies, fix scraped knees, and read bedtime stories with nine little heads on his lap.
He worked two jobs so they never missed a meal or a school trip.
