I still remember the way the balloons danced next to me as I pulled into the hospital parking lot that day. My heart raced with excitement—today was the day I would finally bring home my daughters. I had spent weeks preparing: the nursery was arranged with love, dinner was ready on the table, and every corner of my home was set for laughter and warmth. Suzie, my wife and partner, deserved every bit of that joy after the long, challenging months of pregnancy.
But nothing went as planned.
The Start of a Nightmare
When I stepped into the hospital room, I found my daughters sleeping soundly in their bassinets, each wrapped in soft pink blankets. Yet, something was terribly wrong: Suzie was not there. At first, I assumed she might have stepped out for a moment—perhaps to see the nursery or grab a bite in the cafeteria. Then I noticed it: a neatly folded note left on the bedside table. With trembling fingers, I unfolded it and read:
“Goodbye. Take care of them. Ask your mother WHY she did this to me.”
The words blurred before my eyes. My heart pounded as I tried to comprehend the message. Suzie had been happy, or so I believed. A nurse soon entered, unaware of my growing panic, and handed me the discharge papers.
“Where’s my wife?” I asked, my voice shaky.
After a brief pause, the nurse replied, “She checked out this morning. She said you knew.”
I couldn’t believe it. Suzie—my partner, the mother of our children—had left without a word. All that remained was this baffling note and an accusation that pointed directly at my own mother.
Confronting the Unthinkable
I drove home in a daze, holding my daughters tightly and clutching the crumpled note as if it held the key to everything. When I arrived, my mother, Mandy, was waiting on the porch with a warm smile and a casserole dish in hand. She rushed over to greet me, but I wasn’t in any condition for her cheerfulness.
“Not yet, Mom,” I said firmly, stepping back and protecting my little ones.
Her smile faltered as she noticed my distress. “Ben, what’s wrong?”
Without a word, I thrust the note into her hands. “What did you do to Suzie?”
For a moment, I saw a flash of guilt cross her face before she quickly composed herself. “Ben, I don’t understand what this is about. Suzie was always very emotional. Maybe she—”
“Don’t lie to me!” I interrupted. “You’ve never really supported her, have you?”
Her protest was weak as I realized I could no longer trust her. That night, after putting our daughters to bed, I sat alone at the kitchen table with a glass of whiskey and the note burning a hole in my hand. The only question that kept echoing in my mind was, What did you do, Mom?
Continue reading on next page…