10/24/2025
Thirteen years ago, everything changed. Andrew, my husband, left for work and I soon received a call. The person said, "Ma'am, I'm sorry to inform you, your husband died in an accident this morning." He also explained, "There was another woman in the car who also died... and two surviving daughters. DNA confirms they're Andrew's children."
I felt completely numb. Andrew had hidden a secret life from me, and it broke me. In the midst of grief, watching those two young girls at his funeral—alone in the world—something inside me shifted. They had lost everyone; I couldn't let them go, too.
I chose to adopt them. Despite heartbreak, I gave them my love. Through the years, we formed our own family. When they turned ten, I shared the full story with them. They became a bit distant, but I hoped they understood.
Then, I came home one evening and my key wouldn't turn. The LOCKS HAD BEEN CHANGED. My heart sank. There was a note in handwriting I recognized:
"WE'RE ADULTS NOW. WE NEED OUR OWN SPACE. GO AND LIVE WITH YOUR MOM!"
A couple of suitcases containing my possessions sat beside the door. They had packed my things and KICKED ME OUT. I stood there, unable to move, unsure why this had happened.
For a week I couldn't cope—until a phone call arrived. ⬇️
