Back then, I really believed my husband, Thatcher, and I were solid.
We’d been married for four years when we finally welcomed our twin girls.
Then we were completely overwhelmed by sleepless nights, baby bottles, and tiny socks scattered everywhere. I thought the chaos just meant we were building something strong together.
I remember standing in the nursery at 2 a.m., one baby crying in the bassinet while the other hiccupped against my shoulder, telling myself that this was exactly what love looked like.
I believed that having a messy, loud life was totally worth it.
But somewhere in those early months, while I was home on maternity leave with the babies, Thatcher started pulling away from me.
It wasn’t dramatic at first—just subtle.
My husband stopped sitting beside me on the couch.
