Two years ago, everything in my life seemed to fall apart at once. It started the day my wife left. There was no argument, no warning—just a quiet goodbye and five words I’ll never forget: “I can’t do this anymore.”
She walked out the door with a small bag over her shoulder, leaving behind our apartment—and more importantly, our four-year-old twins, Max and Lily. I stood there, holding their tiny hands, unsure how to explain that their mother wasn’t coming back.
One day we were a family. The next, I was a single dad trying to hold everything together.
At the time, I had just lost my job. The tech company I worked for closed suddenly amid financial trouble, and I went from a stable income to lining up for unemployment. My wife, Anna, had always been optimistic—smart, successful in her marketing career. But when life got hard, she made a different choice: she walked away instead of staying to rebuild with us.
In the beginning, I didn’t know how we’d get through. I juggled gig jobs—grocery deliveries during the day, rideshare driving at night—and in between, every moment belonged to Max and Lily. They were confused, missing their mom, asking questions I couldn’t fully answer. I tried my best to shield their hearts with gentle stories and routines.
We were lucky to have my parents nearby. They offered help when they could, watching the kids when I needed to work. Their presence reminded me that family, no matter the size, could still be strong.
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