Two days later, he packed his things. He moved back into his mother’s sprawling estate, behind the iron gates that had always shut me out. He cut off contact. He didn’t come home once. Not for the 2 a.m. feedings when I was crying from exhaustion. Not for the doctor appointments. Not for anything.

I was broken. My heart felt like it had been carved out with a dull knife. But as I looked at Emma and Ethan, sleeping peacefully in their crib, I made a silent vow. I refused to break down.

I worked double shifts from home, transcribing medical records until my eyes blurred. I raised the twins alone, fueled by coffee and sheer willpower. I leaned on my best friend, Sarah, who became the partner Caleb refused to be. It wasn’t easy. There were nights I sobbed into my pillow so I wouldn’t wake the babies. But my children deserved love—even if their father had walked out on them.

Three months passed in a blur of survival.