Chapter 1 - The Sound of a Slamming Door
“The crying is driving me insane. I need space,” my husband, Daniel Whitmore, said.
He stood in the center of our small home in Portland, Oregon.
In his hand was a sleek, heavy leather suitcase.
On his face was a look of pure, unadulterated irritation.
And from the living room, the wails of our one-month-old twins, Noah and Lily, echoed against the walls, piercing through my skull.
I stared at him, unable to comprehend what was happening.
I was still recovering from a brutal childbirth.
Every single movement felt like broken glass inside me.
I had slept maybe two hours in the last three days. My hair was tangled into a solid knot, my hands shook visibly from severe exhaustion, and I had barely finished feeding Lily when Noah began screaming again.
My shirt was stained with milk and spit-up.
Daniel’s shirt was crisp, designer, and smelled of expensive cologne.
“Daniel, please,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “I can’t do this alone. Look at me.”
He didn't look at me. He looked at his watch.
He gave a bitter, sharp little laugh, as if my desperation was just an inconvenience to his schedule.
“Women give birth every single day, Claire. You’ll figure it out. It’s natural.”
Before I could even process the cruelty of those words, his phone buzzed loudly in his pocket.
Outside, the harsh sound of a car horn blared.
I dragged myself to the window and looked out. His friends—single, wealthy, and childless—were sitting in a black SUV. They were laughing, drinking from red cups, and waiting for him.
Waiting to take him to the airport for their month-long trip through Europe.
A trip he had promised me he had canceled when we found out I was pregnant with twins.
“You’re actually leaving?” I asked, my voice trembling as I held Noah close to my chest, trying to soothe his cries. “You lied to me?”
Daniel finally looked at me, but his eyes were cold. Empty.
“I paid for it months ago, Claire. It’s non-refundable.”
“We have newborn twins! They are your children!”
“And I’m still allowed to have a life! I work hard! I deserve a break!”
He didn't wait for my response.
He didn't kiss the babies.
He didn't look back.
The front door slammed behind him with such violent force that one of our framed wedding photos detached from the hallway wall and shattered onto the hardwood floor.
The sound made both babies scream louder.
That night, the house was suffocatingly dark.
I didn't have the strength to clean up the broken glass.
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I simply sank to the nursery floor, sitting directly between the two bassinets.
I pulled my knees to my chest, buried my face in my hands, and cried with them until my voice gave out.
