I was just 23 when my world shifted forever. Hours after giving birth to our triplets, Adam — my husband — quietly slipped out of the hospital room. No goodbye, no explanation. Just the soft click of the door and the weight of three tiny cries echoing against sterile walls.
“I need some air, Allison. Just a minute,” he’d said. That minute stretched into an eternity. He never came back. The car was gone, and so was the life I thought we had. When the nurses wheeled me out, three car seats sat in the back of a taxi paid for by their kindness, not his. I stared out the window, clutching one baby in each arm, while the third slept beside me — a single tear sliding down my cheek as I wondered how I’d ever do this alone.
Home became both a battlefield and a sanctuary. The nights blurred into each other — bottles, diapers, endless crying. My body ached, my mind buzzed with exhaustion, and every mirror reflected a stranger. One night, shaking and desperate, I called Greg — Adam’s best friend — not to fix things, but simply to listen.
“I can’t do this, Greg. I’m falling apart.”
He didn’t hesitate. Within thirty minutes, he was there — arms full of groceries and diapers, voice calm and steady. He didn’t judge or question. He cleaned bottles, folded tiny clothes, took out the trash, and whispered, “Go take a shower, Alli. I’ve got them.” For the first time in months, I cried from relief.
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