The day I drove to the hospital to bring home my wife and our newborn twins, I felt like the luckiest man alive. Balloons bounced in the seat beside me, and I couldn’t stop smiling. Everything felt perfect. I had spent weeks preparing the nursery, cooking Suzie’s favorite dinner, and decorating our home with family photos. After nine challenging months, I wanted to give her the warmest welcome possible.
I rushed into the hospital, my heart pounding with excitement. But when I opened the door to her room, my world shifted.
The twins were there, sleeping peacefully in their bassinets. But Suzie was gone.
Confused, I scanned the room and noticed a note on the side table. My hands trembled as I unfolded it.
“Goodbye. Take care of them. Ask your mother WHY she did this to me.”
I read it again and again, unable to make sense of the words. A nurse entered with a clipboard, cheerful and unsuspecting.
“She checked out this morning,” the nurse explained gently. “She said you were aware.”
But I wasn’t.
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