I still remember the weight of my daughters in my arms on the day my marriage ended.

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They were only weeks old. Two tiny lives wrapped in mismatched blankets, warm and fragile against my chest. They smelled of milk and baby powder, and their breaths rose and fell in soft, uneven rhythms.

I was still healing. Still exhausted. Still learning how to be a mother to two babies at once.

Those early weeks were supposed to be filled with quiet joy and shared responsibility.

Instead, they became about survival.

That morning, David stood in the bedroom doorway with his arms crossed.

His expression was already settled, as if he had made this decision long before speaking it out loud.

He did not raise his voice.

He did not argue.

He simply said he was not ready for this kind of life.

Twins, he explained, were too much.

Then he reminded me of something I had never been allowed to forget.

The house belonged to his mother.

And just like that, he told me I needed to leave.

I packed what I could while my hands shook.

Diapers. Formula. A few baby clothes.

Everything I owned fit into one small suitcase.

I held my daughters close, kissed the doorframe goodbye, and walked out without knowing where we would sleep that night.

That was the moment my old life ended.

I found a worn-down trailer on the edge of town.

It was drafty and quiet in a way that felt almost lonely. The floors creaked under every step. The heater struggled through the cold nights. Wind rattled the walls like it was trying to push its way inside.

But it was ours.

That is when the hardest years truly began.

I worked double shifts at a grocery store, standing on aching feet for hours at a time.

On weekends, I cleaned houses.

I scrubbed other people’s kitchens while mine smelled of damp metal and bleach.

A neighbor’s teenage daughter watched my twins during late shifts. I paid her whatever I could manage.

Every dollar mattered.

Every hour mattered.