I was wrong.
Fifteen years earlier, my life had been ordinary in the best possible way.
I worked long hours as a maintenance supervisor for a commercial building company. Elena worked in an office and complained that her job was beneath her. We lived in a modest house with a small garden, a kitchen that always seemed too crowded, and a hallway full of children’s shoes.
We had six daughters.
Chloe was thirteen. Stella was eight. Charlotte, Violet, and Evelyn were five-year-old triplets. Maya, the youngest, was nine months old.
Our house was noisy, exhausting, and frequently short of money.
It was also the center of my universe.
Elena had once loved that life, or at least I thought she had. We used to sit together after the girls fell asleep and talk about buying a bigger house. She wanted to travel. I wanted to save enough money to give the girls a good education.
