Part 1: The Locked Door

When my husband returned from his trip, he found two hospital wristbands on the kitchen counter and no one waiting to forgive him.

I know because the building concierge called me at my sister's apartment. “He's asking where you went,” she said. “I told him I couldn't share a resident's information.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

My daughter Nora was asleep against my chest. Her brother Ben was in the bassinet beside us, making the little breathy noises that had kept me awake all night. Both babies had finally been discharged that afternoon. I had promised myself that the first evening of their lives outside the hospital would be quiet.

My phone lit up. Julian again.

The first time I called him from the hospital, I was still able to speak between contractions. The second time, I left a message saying the doctor thought the twins would arrive that night. By the fifth, I had stopped explaining. I simply asked him to answer.

He had told me he was attending a conference in Chicago. A week earlier, my doctor had suggested he stay nearby because twins sometimes arrive early. Julian had kissed my forehead and said he would be home in plenty of time.

My sister June drove me to the hospital when I could no longer wait. She held my hand through the hours that followed and asked the questions I couldn't remember. A nurse named Rosa wrote the answers down for us. At four in the morning, Ben arrived; Nora followed shortly afterward. They were small, tired, and beautiful.

Julian did not call until the next afternoon. I watched his name appear on the screen while a doctor explained that Nora would spend an extra day under observation. June answered for me. She listened, said, “Mara needs rest,” and ended the call.

Later, Julian sent a photograph of a diamond bracelet with the message, For the strongest woman I know.

I stared at it until June took the phone away.

“You don't have to decide anything today,” she said.

But I had already made one decision. I called the moving company we had hired for the nursery furniture and asked whether they could deliver the cribs to June's spare room instead. They said yes. The apartment lease was in both our names, so I left Julian's things exactly where they belonged. I took only the babies' supplies, my clothes, and the papers my attorney had advised me to keep.

Before leaving, I placed copies of the wristbands beside a note: They are safe. Please contact me through June until I am ready to talk.

Now June sat beside me on her sofa and watched the phone ring itself silent.

“Is that enough?” she asked.

“For tonight,” I said.

Then another message arrived, this one from a number I didn't recognize. It contained a photograph of Julian on a lakeside balcony with a woman whose hand rested on his shoulder. Underneath were the words: He told me he was divorced.