There were nights when the house felt like an empty shell, our laughter gone, replaced by the ticking of the clock and the quiet hum of our refrigerator.
By the second year, life began to slowly settle. I found remote work as a coder, which allowed me to spend more time with the twins and finally start building some stability.
We moved into a smaller apartment, but it was ours, and we made it a home. Routines were established — bedtime stories, pancake breakfasts on Saturdays, and long walks in the park where the children could run and laugh without fear.
Their laughter returned in small bursts at first, then in full-force waves that made my heart ache with gratitude. I watched them grow stronger, more resilient, and it gave me a sense of purpose I hadn’t realized I’d been missing.
For the first time in months, I could breathe again without feeling a weight pressing down on my chest. We were finally okay. Or so I thought.
Then I saw her.
It was an ordinary afternoon, and I had decided to stop at a local café after putting the twins down for a quiet nap at home.
There, in a corner near the window, sat Anna. She looked nothing like the polished, confident woman I had once known.
Her hair was tangled and unkempt, her eyes red and puffy from crying, her hands trembling as she fumbled with her coffee cup. For a moment, I almost walked out, afraid that anger or old pain might rise uncontrollably.
Her voice cracked as she explained herself. She had left, she said, chasing a life she thought would be better, only to find that she had lost everything she truly valued. Continue reading…
