After 10 years of trying, I woke from my C-section to meet our twin girls—but my husband was gone and wouldn’t answer his phone. “You really don’t know why he left?” my doctor asked. Then a visitor arrived with an envelope—and I decided she and Andrew needed to face me together.
“The long phone charger,” I said, perched on the edge of the bed with both hands on my belly. “I didn’t pack it.”
“Side pocket.” Andrew knelt by the hospital bag. “Charger, slippers, that lavender lotion you pretend you don’t love.”
“I didn’t pack it.”
“Socks?”
“Two pairs. The fuzzy ones.” He zipped the pocket, then pulled something from under the clothes, grinning like a kid. “And this. For afterward.”
It was my caramel-filled chocolate bar. The gold wrapper crinkled in his fingers, and I laughed so hard the girls kicked.
“And this. For afterward.”
