ADVERTISEMENT
Twelve years is a long time to live in the quiet of unanswered questions, but I had finally learned to embrace it. At thirty-five, my life had become a fortress of stability, built on the ruins of a devastating abandonment. I was twenty-three when Adam left the hospital room, mumbling something about needing fresh air—and never returned. I remember it vividly: the hospital bed, the sharp sting of surgical stitches, and the overwhelming, terrifying reality of newborn triplets. Amara slept on my chest, Andy screamed in his bassinet, and Ashton had just been placed in my arms by a nurse still expecting a father to come back.
Adam’s departure was absolute. He took the car, the shared bank account, and the future we had supposedly planned together. I left the hospital in a cab, three tiny infants strapped into carriers, feeling as if the world had emptied of air. The first weeks were a fever dream of exhaustion and adrenaline.
ADVERTISEMENT
