but by my mother’s constant cruelty. Months passed. Then, one day, a message appeared: a photo of Suzie holding our twins, and a text that read:“I wish I was the type of mother they deserve. I hope you forgive me.”The number was untraceable. But I knew she was alive. I never stopped hoping. A year later,
on the twins’ first birthday, there was a knock at the door. It was her.She’d gotten help. Therapy. Healing. She told me everything — the postpartum depression, the fear, the shame, and my mother’s poison. “I didn’t know how to stay,” she whispered. “We’ll figure it out,” I said. “Together.” And we are. One day at a time.