My daughters were sleeping in their bassinets, but Suzie was gone. I thought she might have stepped out for fresh air, but then I saw the note. I tore it open, my hands trembling. “Goodbye. Take care of them. Ask your mother WHY she did this to me.” The world blurred as I reread it. And reread it. The words didn’t shift, didn’t morph into something less terrible. A coldness prickled along my skin, freezing me in place.

I thought I was dreaming at first. Suzie stood there, clutching a small gift bag, her eyes brimming with tears. She looked healthier, her cheeks were fuller, and her posture was more confident. But the sadness was still there, hovering behind her smile.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

I didn’t think. I pulled her into my arms, holding her as tightly as I dared. She sobbed into my shoulder, and for the first time in a year, I felt whole

Over the following weeks, Suzie told me how the postpartum depression, my mom’s cruel words, and her feelings of inadequacy had overwhelmed her.

She’d left to protect the twins and to escape the spiral of self-loathing and despair. Therapy had helped her rebuild, one painstaking step at a time.

“I didn’t want to leave,” she said one night, sitting on the nursery floor as the girls slept. “But I didn’t know how to stay.”