My spouse struck me. The maternity ward was not visited by him.
I therefore returned home that day by myself, my two newborns at my side, and with a heavy heart.
With my daughter on one side and my son on the other, I whispered, “A taxi to Linden Street, number eight.”
The driver looked into the rearview mirror and nodded silently. Two ribbons, one blue, one pink, two small swaddled creatures.
Four little eyes met mine… A genuine trust that nearly broke me.
As the car started, he ventured to inquire, “Is their father waiting for you?”
I didn’t respond. How could I respond? That in three days, he hadn’t answered the phone? That when I inquired if he had arrived, the nurses exchanged uncomfortable glances?
That my roommate across the hall is the source of the only flowers in my room?
My daughter, which I named Mila, moaned gently and pouted a little. Adam, her brother, started crying in an instant. My twins
— My jewels, hush. It’s Mommy.
The clutter and tobacco odor greeted me at home. He had not returned. I placed Adam and Mila in their tiny beds that had been made before they were born. I vowed never to leave them as I sobbed while sitting down next to them. However, as I was drying my tears, I heard a dull sound coming from the corridor. When I looked up, I saw the unimaginable.
“I have two tiny hearts in my arms.”
I believed I would melt with love as they placed my twins, a boy and a girl, on my chest. However, beneath this happiness lay a cold void: their father was absent. Three days of stillness, three days in the hospital. No visit, no flowers, nothing.
Other mothers were surrounded by family members on the day of discharge. I had my babies wrapped up in their blankets while I waited for a cab. Two ribbons, blue and pink, and two small, trusting faces.
— “Is their dad anticipating your arrival?” questioned the driver.
I looked around. How should I respond? That I been abandoned by him?
Mila, my kid, started crying. Adam, her brother, immediately copied her. I muttered:
— My jewels, hush. It’s Mommy.
The clutter and tobacco odor greeted me at home. He had not returned. I placed Adam and Mila in their tiny beds that had been made before they were born. I vowed never to leave them as I sobbed while sitting down next to them. However, as I was drying my tears, I heard a dull sound coming from the corridor. When I looked up, I saw the unimaginable.
There was a tiny swing in the front door, as though someone had pushed it and slid out. With my heart racing, I dared not move and kept my gaze fixed on the shadow that ran the length of the wall. But the corridor was deserted when I plucked up the guts to go look. The only response I received was a thick, oppressive stillness.
Nights of insomnia started right away: nursing, soothing, changing, and starting over. I stood, exhausted, but only because of them. He, my husband, did not show up. He gave me the sardonic response, “I’m busy,” when I finally got through to him.
Luckily, Aunt Rosa, my neighbor, was on my side. She brought me hot food and occasionally took a break to monitor the babies. She advised me, “You are strong, but remember to eat or you will collapse.”
Finally, a month later, he returned. He told me, bitter and inebriated:
— Are you doing okay, Mother Courage?
“They don’t even look like me,” he said, denying his own offspring.
I told him to go that night. He slammed the door and left.
I didn’t wait for him to come back after that. I chose to fight by myself. For Mila. For Adam.
I took the twins to the doctor one morning in a taxi. Coincidentally, I was driven back from the maternity unit by the same driver.
“How are our little passengers doing?” He smiled as he spoke.
Julien was his name. He gradually established himself as a silent but dependable presence—a grocery bag left at my door, a helping hand pushing the stroller, a sympathetic remark when he noticed my dark circles.
One day, he told me, “It’s not pity.” “Just human beings.”
And I agreed.
As the weeks went by, Julien became more intimate with us. In his arms, the kids giggled and looked up at him as though they had known him all their lives. He became a father figure to them. First a buddy, then a support system, and finally, love for me.
I shut the door on their father when he tried to return. I wasn’t by myself this time.
The years went by. Adam and Mila matured, walked for the first time, and said their first words. Julien was always there, reading them stories, carrying Mila on his shoulders, and throwing the ball with Adam.
He just mentioned to me one day:
More than everything, I adore you and the kids.
And I realized that my heart was already his.
Conclusion
Two years later, my twins were running about me when I got home, and Julien had brought a large bouquet of my favorite flowers—daisies.
I wasn’t an abandoned lady this time. I was a respectable lady, a cherished mother, and my kids had a true home at last.
I had the fortitude to start over because I had two tiny hearts in my arms.
