I remember the day my daughters were born as if it were yesterday.
The hospital room was bright and sterile, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic and hope. My wife, Karen, was exhausted but glowing, holding two tiny bundles against her chest. They were perfect. They were ours.
Then she handed them to me.
“I can’t do this,” she whispered. “I’m not cut out for this. You need to take them.”
I thought she was overwhelmed. I thought she was frightened by the responsibility that comes with becoming a parent.
I was wrong.
She left that day.
She walked out of the hospital and never looked back.





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