When I was eighteen, my mother gave birth to twin girls—and then vanished like we were an inconvenience she could throw away.
No note. No warning. No goodbye.
One day she was there, exhausted but present. The next morning, I woke up to the sound of two newborns crying in a cramped apartment that smelled of formula and fear. Her phone was disconnected. Her closet was empty. Even her toothbrush was gone.
I stood in the doorway, frozen, still wearing a hoodie from my high school senior year, college brochures scattered across my desk. I remember thinking, This has to be a mistake. She’ll be back by tonight.
She never came back.
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