I was twenty-three — exhausted, frightened, and stitched together in every way a woman can be — when Adam walked out of the hospital room. Hours after I delivered our triplets, he mumbled something about needing “a minute of air,” a flimsy promise that stretched into silence, distance, and a permanent absence. There was no goodbye. No reassuring hand on my shoulder. No whispered promise that we were in this together. Just the soft click of the door closing behind him, and three fragile lives suddenly depending entirely on someone who had been left to face motherhood alone.
I remember staring at the bassinet beneath harsh fluorescent lights, wondering how a body that had just been cut open was supposed to hold the weight of three newborns and abandonment. My stomach burned from the C-section, my eyelids felt weighted by sleepless hours, and every empty inch beside me on that hospital bed …
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