The day I returned from a work trip, I expected the usual whirlwind—twin babies crying, bottles in the sink, and my wife, Heather, giving me a tired but loving smile. Instead, the house was still. No noise. No laughter. Just a note on the hallway table.
One word: Goodbye.
It was in Heather’s handwriting. No explanation. No signature. Just that.
I stood in shock, suitcase slipping from my hand. I called her. Straight to voicemail. I FaceTimed, hoping to catch a glimpse of the twins. Silence. My heart raced.
I called my brother, Jason. He hadn’t heard from Heather, or so he said. I knocked on neighbors’ doors—nobody knew anything. Finally, I remembered the security camera above our front door. I’d installed it months ago, and never mentioned it to Heather.
I opened the footage—and there she was. Just hours earlier, Heather walked out the front door with the twins. One in a carrier, the other strapped to her chest. She wasn’t panicked. She looked calm. Then Jason’s car pulled into the driveway.
She got in.
They drove away.
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