When Jack walked into the room, I expected joy. Instead, he looked pale, distant, and nervous. He wouldn’t even come close. I asked him what was wrong, and his response shattered my world. He said we couldn’t take the babies home. Why? Because his mother had gone to a fortune teller who claimed our daughters were cursed—that they would ruin his life and even cause his death.
I stared at him, stunned, hoping it was some twisted joke. But he was serious. I begged him to see reason, to look at the beautiful girls we created together, but he wouldn’t. “If you take them home, you do it alone,” he whispered before walking out of the hospital room—and out of our lives.
I held our daughters close, tears falling as I made a quiet vow. “You’ll never be alone. I will always be here.”
The weeks after were brutal. Three newborns. Sleepless nights. An empty spot where Jack should’ve been. But every giggle, every soft coo reminded me I had everything I needed. Then came a visit from Beth, Jack’s sister. She hesitated before confessing a secret that made my blood run cold. Jack’s mother had lied. There was no fortune teller. She fabricated the entire curse story, afraid Jack would drift away from her now that he had his own family.
I wanted to scream, to march over and confront her—but instead, I called Jack. I told him the truth. He didn’t believe me. He still chose her over us.
Weeks passed. Friends and neighbors stepped up, helping in ways I never expected. Slowly, joy returned. Then, a year later, Jack came to my door. Regret all over his face, he begged to come back, to be a family again. But it was too late. He hadn’t just left me—he’d abandoned his daughters. I looked him in the eyes and told him the truth: “We already are a family. You just aren’t part of it.”
He walked away again. And this time, I didn’t cry. Because the three little girls waiting inside gave me all the strength I’d ever need.
