When Anna walked out, suitcase in hand, and delivered a cold, “I can’t do this anymore,” I was left standing in the echo of her departure—alone with our four-year-old twins, Max and Lily.
In that single, brutal moment, our family vanished. A few months earlier, I had been riding high with a six-figure salary at a tech company, but when the company crumbled under shady dealings, I found myself without a job, now scraping by on unemployment. Anna, a polished marketing executive, was devastated when I told her. But I never expected her to walk away.
I took on anything I could—night shifts as a ride-share driver, grocery deliveries during the day, all while juggling the kids. My parents helped, but only with time—not money. Max and Lily became my anchor. Their little hugs and “We love you, Daddy” were the only things keeping me going. A year later, I secured a remote cybersecurity job. It wasn’t lucrative, but it was steady. We moved to a smaller apartment, and slowly, I began to rebuild our lives.
Two years later, I saw Anna at a café. Her face was weary, her eyes swollen from crying. She told me she missed me, wanted to come back, that she’d lost everything.
But when I asked about the kids, she fell silent. That silence spoke volumes.
I walked away, laptop in hand, knowing some doors are better left shut.
