I remember hearing them scream. The younger one, Noah, started crying. His small, trembling voice cut through the haze, piercing me with a guilt I was too weak to bear.
My oldest, Ethan, who was only seven, ran out of the apartment.
I could not stop him or even speak. I barely remember the sirens or what happened next.
Later, I learned that Ethan ran downstairs to get Kelsey, our neighbor and my closest friend. She came running up, took one look at me, and called 911.
According to Kelsey, my lifesaver, when the paramedics arrived, the boys were huddled in the hallway, clinging to her. I was drifting in and out of consciousness by then. I remember someone asking about medications, someone else strapping something around my arm, and Kelsey’s voice saying, “Please take care of her.”
They took me away in an ambulance. Kelsey kept the boys with her.
Tyler came home around 6 p.m., expecting a warm dinner, order, routine, and folded laundry. Instead, there was chaos. The lights were off, toys were scattered across the living room, there was no smell of food, and the dishwasher was full.
He found my purse sitting on the counter and the fridge still half-open. But the thing that shook him was the note on the floor. It had fallen from the kitchen table.
It only had four words, scrawled in my handwriting before I was taken to the ER.
“I want a divorce.”
According to Tyler, who told me all this later, he panicked and checked his phone only to find dozens of missed calls and messages. First, he called my cell. “Pick up…Madison…please…pick up,” he frantically whispered, but there was no answer.
He checked every room and even opened closets.
“Where did she go? Where are the kids?” he said as he scrolled down the contacts to call Zara, my sister.
“Where is she? Where are the kids?” he asked, his voice trembling.
Zara informed him that I was at the hospital in serious condition, carrying our third child.
“The kids are with me. She collapsed, Tyler. The hospital tried calling you several times, but you never answered.”
His fury collapsed into shock and guilt; he dropped the phone and whispered, “Is this some kind of a joke?”
Tyler didn’t bother trying to process what my sister said; he just left the apartment, keys shaking in his hand.
At the hospital, I was hooked up to IVs and monitors. I was dehydrated, exhausted, and, as they confirmed, pregnant. When Tyler arrived, he looked like a man who had just been slapped by reality.
He sat beside me and held my hand. I hated the feel of his hand in mine, but I was too weak to say anything.
“I didn’t know,” he whispered. “I didn’t know you were this sick.”
The nurse asked him to wait outside while they ran more tests. I did not ask him to stay, but he did.
For the first time in years, Tyler saw the weight of his cruelty, and he did something unexpected: he took responsibility.
While I recovered, he became the parent I’d begged him to be.
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