I arrived home, my steps quickened by the promise of a quiet evening after a long day. But as I approached the door, I stopped in my tracks. There they were—my two children, standing outside, their small bags already packed beside them. The sight sent a cold shiver down my spine.
“Mom, we’re ready,” my daughter, Ella, spoke up. Her voice was so calm, too calm for a girl who should have been playing inside or asking about dinner.
“Ready? Ready for what?” I asked, my voice trembling.
The look in her eyes broke me. It wasn’t the defiance I had expected, but a sadness—a sadness that seemed to come from a place I couldn’t reach.
“We’re leaving,” my son, Lucas, said softly, clutching his favorite stuffed animal. “We don’t want to live here anymore.”
The words hit me like a punch to the stomach. “What do you mean? Where are you going?”
They both looked at each other before turning back to me, their small hands clutching the straps of their bags. “We want to stay with Dad.”
My heart sank. This wasn’t just a tantrum; this was real. My children, my precious children, were choosing to leave, and all because I hadn’t been able to fix the mess I had made.
“Please, just stay, don’t go…” My voice cracked, but it didn’t matter. They had already made up their minds. They were leaving.
The most painful day of my life had arrived—not because I was losing my marriage, but because I was losing the love of my children.