I was told my twin daughters died the day they were born. For five years, I lived inside that grief—quiet, suffocating, endless. And then, on a completely ordinary morning, everything I thought I knew about my life… shattered.
I wasn’t supposed to cry on my first day.
I repeated that to myself the entire drive.
A new city.
A new job.
A new beginning.
I told myself I would walk into that daycare calm, composed… whole.
That whatever had broken inside me five years ago would stay buried where it belonged.
But grief doesn’t stay buried.
It waits.
I was standing at the back table, unpacking art supplies—tiny paint bottles, blunt scissors, crayons worn down by other children’s hands—when the door opened.
Morning arrivals.
And then… them.
