I wanted to be able to tell them the truth.
I had tried.
I had tried until I no longer knew what else to do.
As the years passed, the envelopes accumulated in a cardboard storage box in the back of my closet.
Birthday invitations.
School photographs.
Concert programs.
Graduation notices.
Cards the girls had made with glitter and colored pencils.
Copies of emails.
Printed messages.
Some envelopes had my handwriting on them. Others had Chloe’s, Stella’s, or one of the triplets’ childish attempts at writing their mother’s name.
The box became a record of every door I had knocked on that had never opened.
And eventually, the girls stopped asking whether their mother would come next time.
That hurt more than their tears ever had.
Life did not become easy overnight, but it became better.
I earned a promotion at work. Chloe went to college and later became a project manager for a construction company. Stella became a teacher. Charlotte trained as a nurse, while Violet studied accounting. Evelyn discovered a talent for graphic design, and Maya, the baby Elena had left behind, grew into a confident young woman who wanted to study law.
