Picture this: Anna, my wife, storming out with a suitcase, tossing a curt “I can’t do this” as I held our twins, Max and Lily, in a messy apartment. Two years ago, she shredded me, leaving without a backward glance. I’d just lost my tech job—big salary gone when the firm crashed in a scandal. Living in a costly city, I hit zero fast. I told her, expecting teamwork, but saw her deflate. She was my dream—sharp, stunning, a marketing pro who shone even pushing out twins. I never thought she’d ditch us when the chips were down. That first year was a nightmare—solo, broke, scrambling with rideshares and deliveries while the kids cried for her. I’d dodge their “Where’s Mommy?” with weak answers, leaning on my parents for help, though their pensions couldn’t stretch far. The twins’ love—tight hugs, sweet “I love yous”—pulled me through.
Year two shifted gears. A coding side hustle scored me a remote gig in cybersecurity—decent pay, not riches. We moved to a comfy place, I got fit, cooked again, and built a life for us three. Then, two years to the day she left, I spotted her in a café near home, sipping coffee while the twins were at preschool. The air smelled of beans and buzzed with chatter, but she sat alone, tears streaking a face I barely knew—worn, faded, far from her old sparkle. Anger flared—she’d bailed when we sank—but I crossed over. “Anna, what’s up?” She looked up, caught, and muttered, “David, I didn’t…” “You left us,” I said, sitting. “Now this? Talk.” She confessed, voice cracking, “I screwed up. Thought I’d soar alone—no broke husband, no kids dragging me down. Lost my job, money, everyone.” Sobbing, she begged, “I miss you. Let me back.”
Her words dangled—I felt her crash sting sweet, yet sad we didn’t fight it out as one. “You miss me now you’re empty,” I said. She reached out, pleading, “I’ve suffered—cheap rooms, temp jobs. I see what I lost.” I dodged her hand. “Not a word about the twins.” She shrank, mumbling shame. “We’re solid now,” I said. “You picked this.” I walked out, her cries echoing, and that night, Max and Lily’s dinner chatter—worm stories, park sketches—lit me up. Anna threw this away. I’d shield them, maybe crack the door if she grew up, but our story with her was done for now—we were whole.
