I always thought the happiest day of my life would be the day I gave birth to our daughter. Michael and I had planned for it together—every little detail, from the music that would play in the delivery room to the tiny hat he’d place on our newborn’s head. He promised he’d be right by my side, holding my hand as we became a family.
But when the moment finally came, he wasn’t there.
As I lay in that hospital bed, labor intensifying, I kept glancing at the door, waiting for him to walk in with that reassuring smile. But all I got were concerned nurses and unanswered calls. My mother held my hand instead, her silence louder than words. I could sense something was wrong, but I was too overwhelmed to ask.
Two days later, I came home with my daughter, Emily, still hoping for answers. I called out for Michael as I stepped through the front door, but the house was eerily quiet. I climbed the stairs with Emily in my arms and entered the nursery—what was supposed to be our haven.
The crib remained, but many of the baby items were gone. And inside the crib was a folded note.
“I love you and our baby, Elena. But I have to leave. Ask your mom why. I’ve taken some of Emily’s things to remember you both.”
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