“I… I need some air,” he muttered.
Before I could respond, he turned and walked out of the room.
I waited.
Ten minutes passed.
An hour.
A nurse adjusted my IV and asked, “Is your husband coming back?”
I said yes.
But he didn’t.
No call. No text. No explanation.
He vanished.
I brought the babies home alone.
The apartment felt impossibly small—three bassinets squeezed into our bedroom, stacks of diapers everywhere, formula cans lining the counter like soldiers.
The crying never stopped.
Feed one. Burp one. Change one. Start over.
Sleep came in ten-minute fragments, if at all. I cried silently while rocking them at night, terrified my tears would wake them. My body hurt. My mind felt like it was unraveling thread by thread.
I called Adam. Over and over.
Straight to voicemail.
Weeks turned into months. The silence became its own answer.
I broke more times than I can count.
