“They need stability. Harry can give me that.”
Harry.
Her boss.
The wealthy businessman I’d heard mentioned far too often during the previous year.
The “kind employer.”
The “supportive mentor.”
The man who was apparently much more than either.
She zipped her suitcase.
“You work all the time.”
“I work because we have six children.”
“I want more than this life.”
I looked around our modest home.
It wasn’t luxurious.
But it was filled with love.
Birthday photos decorated the walls.
Tiny shoes lined the hallway.
School drawings covered the refrigerator.
To me, it was everything.
To her, it wasn’t enough.
She smiled almost proudly.
“Harry bought me a new Mercedes.”
I stayed silent.
“He took me to the Maldives.”
Still nothing.
“He understands what I deserve.”
Then she looked directly into my eyes.
“You never could.”
She walked past me without asking to kiss our baby goodbye.
The front door closed.
And just like that…
I became both mother and father.
Learning to Raise Six Girls Alone
People love saying, “Everything happens for a reason.”
I don’t know if I believe that.
Because there was nothing beautiful about watching six little girls cry themselves to sleep asking why Mommy didn’t love them anymore.
The first few months were chaos.
I burned dinners.
Forgot school picture day.
Mixed up dance schedules.
Accidentally washed pink socks with white uniforms.
The laundry seemed endless.
Someone always needed help with homework.
Someone always had a fever.
Someone always woke from a nightmare.
Money became painfully tight.
I worked double shifts.
Sometimes triple.
I’d leave before sunrise and return after sunset.
Yet somehow the girls never complained.
