The day my triplets were born should have been the happiest of my life. But when my husband, Jack, walked into the hospital room, his expression shattered everything.
“I don’t think we can keep them,” he said.
I stared at him, uncomprehending. “What?”
His mother had consulted a fortune teller, he explained. The woman had warned our daughters would bring disaster—bad luck, even death. And Jack believed her.
“You’re abandoning your children over a prediction?” I demanded.
He couldn’t meet my eyes. “I’m sorry, Em.” Then he walked out.
For weeks, I struggled alone, caring for three newborns while my heart ached. Then my sister-in-law dropped a bombshell—Jack’s mother had lied. There was no fortune teller. She’d invented the story to keep Jack close, afraid he’d neglect her for his new family.
Furious, I called Jack. “Your mother made it up!”
He refused to believe me. “She wouldn’t do that.”
A year later, he showed up at my door, regret in his eyes. “I want to come home.”
But home wasn’t his anymore. It belonged to me and my girls.
“Too late,” I said, shutting the door on the past.
