I never imagined I’d give birth alone.
Michael had been my partner in everything—through the morning sickness, the cravings, even the late-night panic about whether we’d be good parents. But when the moment came, he wasn’t there.
I called. I texted. Nothing.
My mother stayed by my side, her grip tight on my hand. “He’ll be here,” she kept saying. But he never came.
When Emily was born, I held her close, tears streaming down my face. Where was Michael?
The answer came when I got home.
The house was empty. The nursery—once filled with love and anticipation—was bare except for a single note in the crib.
“I have to leave. Ask your mother.”
I stormed downstairs, shoving the note at her. “What did you do?”
Her face fell. “He was having an affair, Elena. I confronted him. He chose to run instead of facing you.”
The room spun. No—this couldn’t be true. But the late nights, the sudden gifts… it all made sense now.
“You should have told me,” I whispered.
“I thought I was protecting you,” she said.
But protection shouldn’t feel like betrayal.
Days later, Michael answered my call by accident. “Elena?”
“Is it true?” I asked.
A long pause. Then, “Yes.”
He was gone. And as I held Emily, I realized—maybe some goodbyes are blessings in disguise.
