When my husband disappeared days after I gave birth to triplets, I didn’t have time to grieve him.
I had three newborns and no margin for collapse.
I was 23 years old, sore, exhausted, and still foggy from medication when Gale said he needed “some air.” I watched him walk out of the hospital room while I held one baby to my chest, another cried in a bassinet, and the third had just been placed in my arms.
He never came back.
No call. No explanation. No goodbye.
Two days later, I left the hospital alone with three infants, no car, and a fear so heavy it hollowed me out. I remember sitting in the lobby, trying to look like someone who had a plan, while inside I was unraveling. I ordered a cab, strapped the babies into their carriers, and kept glancing at the door, convinced Gale would burst through it with apologies.
He didn’t.
That first night at home was survival mode. Bottles warmed while babies cried. Sleep disappeared. Food became whatever I could eat with one hand. I stopped answering my phone. I stopped opening the curtains. I felt invisible and completely overwhelmed.
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