“I’m not wired for this.”
I asked her to think about it. To sleep on it.
She did.
For three days, Claire stayed in our house while our newborn daughters slept in the nursery down the hall.
Then, on the third morning, I came downstairs and immediately knew something was wrong.
Her coat was gone. Her suitcase was gone. The front door was unlocked.
Claire had left.
She hadn’t even gone into the nursery to say goodbye. Not once.
Becoming a Father Alone
I won’t tell you that what came next was easy. That would be unfair to every person who has ever had to carry something similar.
I was twenty-nine years old and working in facilities management. At the same time, I was raising two infant daughters who needed formula, clean diapers, and someone to comfort them whenever they cried — which was often and never at a convenient time.
My mother came to help during the first six weeks. For the first year, my sister took Lily every other weekend so I could catch up on sleep.
Even with their help, there were countless nights when I found myself sitting on the kitchen floor at two in the morning, simply holding on and waiting for the feeling to pass.
What I learned is that surviving something difficult rarely happens during the dramatic moments.
Most of the time, survival looks ordinary.
Sometimes it looks like two sick little girls, an empty medicine cabinet, and a pharmacy that closes in eight minutes. Sometimes it’s sitting alone at a school concert while every other parent seems to have someone beside them.
And sometimes it’s just breakfast. A bowl of cereal. A quiet morning. And a question that breaks your heart.
