01/01/2025
It started 13 years ago. My husband, Andrew, had left for work, and then the phone rang. The voice on the other end said, “Ma’am, I’m sorry to inform you, your husband died in an accident this morning.” The caller continued, “There was another woman in the car who also died... and two surviving daughters. DNA confirms they’re Andrew’s children.”
I went numb. My husband had been hiding a double life. I was shattered. But at his funeral, seeing those two little girls—clinging to each other, motherless, fatherless—I felt something shift. They had no family left; I felt I couldn’t abandon them.
So I decided to adopt them. Despite the betrayal, I gave them all the love I had. Over the years, we became a family. When they turned ten, I told them the truth, and although they seemed a bit distant afterward, I thought they understood.
Then, one day, I came home from work, and my key didn’t fit the lock. Confused, I tried again, only to realize the LOCKS HAD BEEN CHANGED. My stomach dropped. On the door was a note in familiar handwriting:
“We’re adults now. We need our own space. Go and live with your mom!”
Next to it were a couple of suitcases filled with my belongings. They had packed my things and KICKED ME OUT. I was numb. What had I done to deserve this?
I spent a week in shock—until I got a call.