I was twenty-three, exhausted and raw, when Adam walked out of the hospital room.
Hours after the triplets were born, he muttered something about needing “a minute of air,” a promise that stretched into a permanent absence.
There was no goodbye, no hand on my shoulder, no whispered reassurance.
Just the quiet click of the hospital door and three tiny humans depending entirely on someone who was suddenly gone. I remember staring at the bassinet, the fluorescent hospital lights reflecting on pale newborn skin, and wondering how I could possibly survive. My body ached from the C-section, my eyes were heavy with sleep deprivation, and my heart felt hollow in the spaces he left behind. Adam’s absence wasn’t just physical; it was a message…
