Raising Triplets: Three of a Kind

Everyone always joked we’d need color-coded bowties to tell our triplets apart—so we gave them blue, teal, and red. They were perfect little copies, right down to their dimples. They finished each other’s sentences, had their own secret language, and shared everything. It felt like raising one soul in three bodies.

A Stranger in Our Son’s Words

But a few weeks ago, Eli—our Teal triplet—started waking up crying. Not from nightmares. From memories. That’s what he called them.

He’d say things like, “Remember the old house with the red door?” We’ve never had a red door. Or, “Why don’t we see Mrs. Langley anymore? She always gave me peppermints.” We don’t know anyone named Langley.

Last night, he looked right at me and said, “I miss Dad’s old Buick. The green one with the dented bumper.” I was stunned. I drive a Honda. We never owned a green Buick.

Imagination or Something More?

At first, we told ourselves it was imagination. The boys are seven, after all. They invent wild stories—pirates, dinosaurs, fairies. But Eli’s eyes glazed over when he spoke, as if he were somewhere else. He wasn’t pretending. He believed it.

My wife Marcie comforted him, “Maybe you dreamed it, sweetie. Dreams can feel real.” Eli shook his head. “No. I remember. The red door had a squeak. Mom told me not to slam it.”

When he said “Mom,” he wasn’t looking at me. It was like I vanished from his world.

Drawing the Unseen

Marcie and I began writing down everything Eli said. We planned to speak with his pediatrician and maybe a child psychologist.

Then Eli started drawing. Page after page showed the same house—red door, chimney with ivy, stone path, and tulip garden. His brothers, Max and Ben, watched and said, “Cool house,” but they weren’t worried.

Eli wasn’t scared. Just sad. Like something precious had been taken from him.

A Glimpse Into Another Life

One Saturday, I found Eli in the garage digging through boxes. Dusty hands looked up. “Do we still have my old baseball glove?”

“You don’t play baseball, bud,” I said gently.

“I used to,” he said. “Before I fell.”

I crouched down. “Before you what?”

“Before I fell off the ladder—the one Dad told me not to climb.” He touched the back of his head. “It really hurt.”

His voice held calm certainty. Not fear.

This strange new side of Eli unsettled us. But we listened, watched, and tried to understand—because sometimes, the heart holds stories beyond our reach.