I was overcome with excitement as I drove toward the maternity ward, eager to bring my wife, Lina, and our twin daughters home. The house was ready, a warm dinner simmering on the stove, and I had even picked up balloons, envisioning the joyful reunion that awaited us.
But when I arrived at the hospital, everything I had prepared for was shattered.
Lina was nowhere to be found.
There, lying peacefully in their crib, were our two tiny girls, unaware of the storm brewing around them. And beside them, a note, fragile and torn, as if it had been written in haste.
I opened the letter with trembling hands:
“Goodbye. Take good care of them. Ask your mother what she did to me.”
A cold shiver ran down my spine as my mind struggled to grasp the meaning of those words.
I turned to the nurse, desperate for answers. “My wife… where is she?”
She looked uncomfortable, unsure of how to proceed. “She left this morning. She said you knew.”
But I didn’t know. I was lost, trying to make sense of it all. Why had she left? Where had she gone? What had happened?
Back at home, my heart weighed heavily as I entered, still holding our twin girls in my arms. My mother stood at the door, her smile wide, a casserole in hand.
“Let me see my granddaughters!” she exclaimed.
I froze, staring at her, the pieces of the puzzle slowly coming together.
“Not now, Mom,” I said, my voice trembling. “What did you do to Lina?”
The silence that followed was deafening, and I knew the answers were hidden somewhere, buried in the past. But I had no idea how deep the secret went.