I Went to Pick Up My Wiife and Newborn Twins from the Hospital — I Found Only the Babies and a Note
I arrived at the hospital, balloons bobbing, grinning ear-to-ear. Today, I’d bring home my wife Suzie and our newborn twins, Callie and Jessica. I’d prepped the nursery, cooked dinner, framed photos—everything for her after nine grueling months.
But the room was empty except for the sleeping babies. A note lay on the bed: “Goodbye. Take care of them. Ask your mother WHY she did this to me.”
The nurse said Suzie checked out quietly that morning, claiming I knew. I didn’t.
I drove home in a fog, cradling the girls, note clenched in my fist. My mother, Mandy, waited on the porch with a casserole and a beaming smile.
“Not yet,” I snapped, thrusting the note at her. “What did you do to Suzie?”
She paled, stammering denials. I’d always dismissed her barbs as overbearing love, but now doubt gnawed.
That night, whiskey in hand, I searched Suzie’s things. In her jewelry box, I found Mandy’s letter: “You’ll never be good enough… you’ve trapped him… leave before you ruin their lives.”
Fury erupted. I confronted Mom at midnight. “You bullied her into leaving!”
“I was protecting you,” she whispered.
“Pack your things. Get out.” She left, tears streaming.
Weeks blurred into sleepless nights and diapers. Friends revealed Suzie felt trapped—by pregnancy, by Mom’s cruelty. Sara said Suzie feared I’d side against her.
A year passed. No leads. Then, a text: a photo of Suzie with the twins, caption: “I wish I was the type of mother they deserve. Forgive me.” The number was dead.
On the twins’ first birthday, a knock. Suzie stood there, eyes wet, clutching a gift. I pulled her close as she sobbed.
Postpartum depression, Mom’s venom, and self-doubt had broken her. She’d left to protect us, then fought through therapy to return.
Healing was slow, but together—with love, resilience, and our girls—we rebuilt what we’d nearly lost.
