He left behind a half-empty bottle of cologne, three shirts, and the mortgage payment due the following Monday.
For months, I kept expecting him to return.
Not because I wanted him.
Because I couldn't understand how someone could walk away from two children who still waited at the window when they heard a car.
Eventually, I stopped expecting.
Then I stopped hoping.
And finally, I learned how to survive.
Survival was not elegant.
It looked like working the morning shift at a medical billing office and cleaning offices three evenings a week.
It looked like stretching one roasted chicken into four meals.
It looked like buying school shoes a size too large because children grew faster than my paycheck.
When the twins were five, our washing machine broke.
When they were seven, the roof leaked.
When they were nine, I developed tendonitis from working too many hours at a computer.
