I stopped.
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Six children.
He wrote it as if they were numbers.
Not Emma.
Not Jack.
Not Sophie.
Not Ben.
Not Lily.
Not the baby sleeping beside me.
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Just six children.
I forced myself to continue.
Five already felt like more than I could manage. When you became pregnant again, I told myself I would get used to the idea. Instead, every month I felt more trapped.
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My eyes filled with tears.
Then came the sentence I will never forget.
I don’t want to spend the rest of my life raising six children.
I lowered the letter.
My mother whispered, “Emily…”
But I kept reading.
Daniel explained that he had already rented a small apartment.
He had taken what he considered his share of the savings.
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He wanted to sell the house.
And he wanted a divorce.
He wrote that he would still “be involved” with the children.
But he did not want to live every day with the responsibility of raising six of them.
I felt sick.
For almost two weeks, I had imagined every possible explanation.
Another woman.
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A breakdown.
A secret debt.
Something terrible at work.
The truth was simpler.
He had looked at the family we built together and decided he did not want the life that came with it.
I looked down at my newborn son.
Then I thought about the five children waiting at home.
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