He learned which lullaby calmed which baby.

He taught himself to braid hair with clumsy fingers.

He memorized the rhythm of their cries.

The outside world judged him harshly.

Mothers at school whispered suspicions.
Strangers in grocery stores stared.

Once, a man spat at his feet and sneered, “You’ll regret this.”

But regret never came.

Instead came the first time all nine laughed at once — filling the house with music.

Stormy nights when the power failed and he held them close until they fell asleep in his arms.

Birthdays with crooked cakes.
Christmas mornings with gifts wrapped in old newspaper.

To outsiders, they were the “Miller Nine.”

To Richard, they were simply his daughters.

Nine Girls, Nine Stories

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