When Bridget left, she said she wasn’t built for diaper changes or late-night cries. I pleaded with her to stay, saying we’d work it out, but she was gone—no calls, no child support. The woman I thought was my forever vanished like she’d never been there. When it sank in that she wasn’t coming back, I had to figure things out solo.
I landed a remote IT job to be home with the girls, working during their naps, late at night, or early mornings, and when they went to daycare. Coffee was my fuel. Some days, I was barely awake, but the twins were my priority. It was tough, but we had a routine.
Then this year, everything crashed.
They say trouble comes in waves, and it did. The twins’ daycare closed suddenly after a COVID scare, leaving me with them all day, every day, with no plan. Then my company “reorganized,” slashing my pay by 20%. While I was still reeling, my mom, Gertrude—my only support—got a heart condition needing surgery that Medicare wouldn’t fully cover.
As if that wasn’t enough, my rent shot up. Then, to top it off, the washing machine quit.
I was in over my head, worse than when Bridget was around. I thought about hunting her down or dragging her to court for child support, but it felt like a dead end. I chose to tackle it alone.
With toddlers, laundry is a must. Poppy and Daisy’s sticky hands, potty mishaps, muddy socks, and yogurt spills were endless. For two days, I scrubbed clothes in the tub. My hands bled, my back hurt, and I couldn’t keep up. I called a repair guy to check the machine.
“It’s toast,” he said. “Fixing it’ll cost more than it’s worth. Buy a used one—it’s cheaper.”
