I had just been discharged from the hospital after giving birth to my twin girls, Ella and Sophie. My husband, Derek, was supposed to pick us up, but at the last minute, he called.”Mom’s really unwell. I need to take her to the hospital. I can’t pick you up,” he said. Disappointed, I took a taxi home.
But when I arrived, my suitcases were dumped on the doorstep. My key didn’t work—the locks had been changed. A note taped to my bag read:
“Sorry. I can’t do this anymore. I’ve left. Stay with a friend or family until you figure things out.”

Shocked, I called Derek—voicemail. My hands shaking, I dialed my best friend, Marisol. “Stay put. I’m coming,” she said. She took me and the babies in, offering a safe place to process what had happened.

Days later, I learned Derek had drained our bank account. A friend revealed he owed money to dangerous people. “He panicked,” he admitted.
With legal help, I fought for my home and financial support. Marisol, Derek’s father, and my own determination kept me going. Months later, Derek sent one text: “I’m sorry.”I had to move forward. My daughters deserved stability—and I would give it to them.