I remember hearing them scream. The younger one, Oren, started crying. His small, trembling voice cut through the haze, piercing me with guilt I was too weak to bear.

My oldest, Kieran, only seven, ran out of the apartment.

I couldn’t stop him or speak. I barely remember the sirens or what happened next.

Later, I learned Kieran ran downstairs to get Saffron, our neighbor and closest friend. She raced up, saw me, and called 911.

According to Saffron, my lifesaver, when the paramedics arrived, the boys were huddled in the hallway, clinging to her. I was drifting in and out of consciousness. I recall someone asking about medications, another strapping something around my arm, and Saffron’s voice saying, “Please take care of her.”

They took me away in an ambulance. Saffron kept the boys with her.

Thane came home around 6 p.m., expecting a warm dinner, order, routine, and folded laundry. Instead, he found chaos. The lights were off, toys scattered across the living room, no smell of food, and the dishwasher full.

He found my purse on the counter and the fridge half-open. But what shook him was the note on the floor. It had fallen from the kitchen table.

It had only four words, scrawled in my handwriting before I was rushed to the ER.

“I want a divorce.”

According to Thane, who told me later, he panicked and checked his phone, finding dozens of missed calls and messages. He called my cell. “Pick up… Elowyn… please pick up,” he whispered frantically, but there was no answer.

He checked every room, even opened closets.

“Where is she? Where are the kids?” he said, scrolling to call Isadora, my sister.

“Where is she? Where are the kids?” he asked, his voice trembling.

Isadora told him I was in the hospital, in serious condition, pregnant with our third child.

“The kids are with me. She collapsed, Thane. The hospital tried calling you, but you didn’t answer.”

His anger collapsed into shock and guilt; he dropped the phone and whispered, “Is this real?”

Thane didn’t pause to process Isadora’s words; he grabbed his keys and left, hands shaking.

At the hospital, I was hooked to IVs and monitors. I was dehydrated, exhausted, and, as they confirmed, pregnant. When Thane arrived, he looked like a man hit by reality.

He sat beside me and held my hand. I hated the feel of his hand, 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 didn’t ask him to stay, but he did.

For the first time in years, Thane saw the weight of his cruelty, and he did something unexpected: he took responsibility.

While I recovered, he became the parent I’d pleaded for him to be.

He took care of the boys, whom Saffron had taken to Isadora’s when she couldn’t reach Thane after I collapsed. Thane also cleaned, cooked, bathed the kids, and read them bedtime stories.

I overheard him on a call with my mother, in tears. His voice broke in a way I’d never heard, raw with helplessness.

“How does she do this? How does she manage this every day?”

The question hung like a confession, a glimpse into the burden he’d never acknowledged.

But I was still determined to keep my promise to divorce him. As I started feeling better, memories returned. I recalled trying to call Thane before collapsing, and when he didn’t answer, I wrote the note before everything went black.

So, when I was stable enough, I filed for divorce. I didn’t yell or make accusations. I’d said all I needed in that note. The silence between us was heavier than any argument.

Thane didn’t protest. He didn’t make excuses. His shoulders sagged, as if the fight had drained from him long ago.

He just nodded and said, “I deserve this.”

The words landed without resistance, flat and final, as if he’d rehearsed them a hundred times in his head.

Over the next few months, he showed up—not just with words, but with actions. He attended every prenatal appointment, brought the boys their favorite snacks, and helped with school projects. Thane texted daily, asking how I felt, if I needed anything, if he could drop off groceries.

When we went for the 20-week ultrasound and the technician smiled, I looked at him. For the first time in years, his face was unguarded, free of bitterness or pride. “It’s a girl,” she said.

He wept.

The sound was quiet but unrestrained, as if that single truth had undone every wall he’d built.

When our daughter was born, he cut the cord with shaking hands. “She’s perfect,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. After so long, I saw the man I’d fallen in love with years ago—not the one who mocked and belittled, but the one who sang to our boys at bedtime, who held my hand when I was scared.

But I had learned not to mistake apologies for change.

Months passed. Thane continued therapy. He stayed present, showed up, and though he never asked for a second chance, I could see he hoped.

Sometimes, when the boys ask if we’ll ever live together again, I look at them and wonder. Their eyes carry a hope I’m afraid to touch, fragile as glass in my hands. Love can be jagged. It can break and still hold form. And it can tear, heal, and leave scars.

Those scars become maps, reminders of where we’ve been and how far from whole we still are.

Maybe one day, when the wounds stop aching, I’ll believe in the version of him who cut the cord and wept.

But for now, I smile softly and say, “Maybe.”

The word lingers on my tongue, heavy with the ache of all the truths I cannot tell them.