It all started back in October 2016. He began talking to some woman from my past on Facebook. She wasn’t even a real friend anymore, just someone I still had added. At first I brushed it off. But then it got weird. Messages deleted. Phone calls when I was at work. He even hung a sheet in the living room so I couldn’t see his computer screen while I was sitting on the sofa. Who does that? That’s when I knew it was more than “just talking.”
By March 2017, my mom was sick. My parents decided to move to Georgia to live with my sister. He said we should go too, so I’d be close to her. I thought maybe this could be our fresh start. I was hopeful. I moved first, stayed with my sister, found a job, and waited for him to follow with our daughter.
Then came the truth. When I went back to Pennsylvania to pick up my daughter, she slipped. Over ice cream, she mentioned a little girl’s name. Said that woman had been in our apartment. In my bed. With her dad. My heart sank. Later I found out she was pregnant. Having his son. And to make it worse—she gave him the name he and I had once chosen if we ever had a boy. I can’t explain that kind of pain.
I didn’t leave, though. I wasn’t ready. We tried again. He softened a bit. Picked me flowers, called me fewer names. We moved again, this time to Virginia. Another “new beginning.” He started pushing for another child. I hesitated, but he pressed. “If you love me, why not now?” I gave in.
Getting pregnant wasn’t easy. I wasn’t ovulating. The doctor put me on Clomid. Round after round. Finally, December 2017 I saw two pink lines. After months of charts, apps, tests, tears it finally happened.
At the first ultrasound, it wasn’t clear. A week later, the tech looked at the screen and said, “I see two.” Twins. I laughed in shock. Asked her to repeat it. I was sitting there alone, stunned, excited, scared.
When I told him, he didn’t smile. Didn’t even look happy. Instead, he grew distant again. Talked about how we couldn’t afford twins. How he couldn’t handle watching them. How it was all too much. He hadn’t worked in years. Everything was on me. Then he said it he didn’t think we should keep them.
That’s when I started looking into adoption. I called an agency. Did the interviews. Met the families. Picked one myself. They felt right. They came to appointments. They cared about those boys before they were even born. Meanwhile, I worked full-time, cared for my daughter, walked my big dog, and carried twins alone.
At 36 weeks, contractions started. My blood pressure spiked dangerously. They rushed me in. Emergency C-section. My best friend was there, thank God. That night my boys were born. Tiny. Fragile. Barely four pounds. Straight to the NICU. I needed blood transfusions.
When I finally saw them, wires everywhere, so small, but mine. I held them skin-to-skin, memorized their faces, fed them in the incubators. And I knew I couldn’t take them home. They deserved more than the chaos I was in.
The adoptive parents were amazing. On discharge day, we took pictures together. I kissed my boys, handed them over, and walked back to my car in tears. Alone again.
Recovery was brutal. No help. Just me, my daughter, and the dog. I drove after three days. Walked that 65-pound dog a week after major surgery. But I did it. Eventually, the marriage ended for good.
Then someone new came into my life. The kind of man who cooked for me, walked the dog, drove me to appointments, treated me with kindness I hadn’t felt in years. For the first time, I didn’t feel invisible.
The adoption is open. I get updates every six months. Because of COVID, visits turned into FaceTime calls. I’d give anything to hug them, but seeing them grow even through a screen means everything. One is blonde and full of charm. The other has dark curls and loves cars and trucks. Both perfect. Both loved.
Do I wonder what life would look like if I’d kept them? Of course. But I know in my bones I made the right choice. Adoption wasn’t giving up it was giving them a better chance.
