You had married John after discovering you were pregnant with his child. At nineteen, the world felt like a canvas of endless possibilities, painted with the vibrant hues of youthful optimism. The pregnancy test, with its stark pink lines, had been both a shock and a promise—a vow that you and John would build something beautiful together. At first, everything seemed perfect, a whirlwind of shared dreams and whispered plans in the cramped apartment you called home. You imagined a life filled with laughter, a family knit tightly by love. But as the months stretched on, the weight of responsibility grew heavier, pressing against your chest like a stone. The reality of your situation settled in, cold and unyielding. You were too young, unprepared, and the cracks in your foundation began to show.

The pregnancy was hard. Morning sickness bled into afternoons, and your body felt foreign, hijacked by a force you couldn’t control. You’d always been reckless, chasing highs to escape the mundane, and though you’d sworn off drugs when you saw those pink lines, the pull of that old life lingered. After Kevin was born, your beautiful baby boy with eyes like John’s, the world didn’t brighten as you’d hoped. Instead, it darkened. Sleepless nights, endless crying, and the suffocating sense of being tethered to a life you weren’t ready for gnawed at you. The addiction you’d fought so hard to bury clawed its way back, whispering promises of relief. One night, you gave in—just a taste, you told yourself. But a taste became a torrent, and soon you were drowning again.

A month after Kevin’s birth, you left. You didn’t pack a bag or leave a note. You just slipped out into the night, the weight of shame heavier than the responsibility you were fleeing. You told yourself it was better this way—for Kevin, for John. They deserved someone who could stay, someone who wasn’t broken. But the truth was, you were running from yourself, from the mother you couldn’t be.

John, left alone to care for Kevin, became a paradox of strength and fragility. To the world, he was a pillar—working double shifts, changing diapers, singing lullabies in a voice that trembled only slightly. But inside, he was crumbling. Every time he looked at Kevin, now one year old, with his chubby cheeks and curious eyes, John felt a tightening in his chest, a blend of love and sorrow so intense it threatened to unravel him. Holding Kevin was both a comfort and a wound; each giggle was a reminder of you, his wife, his partner, the mother of his child, who had vanished without explanation. Questions haunted him like ghosts—what had he done wrong? Was it the late nights he spent working? The arguments over money? Or was it something deeper, something he’d failed to see? He replayed every moment, searching for the flaw that had driven you away, but found only his own inadequacy staring back.

He didn’t know about the drugs, not at first. You’d hidden it well, masking the late-night tremors and the glassy-eyed stares as exhaustion. But the signs had been there, and in hindsight, they burned like accusations. He blamed himself for not noticing, for not pulling you back from the edge. Now, he was alone, raising a son in a world that felt half-empty.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, cloaking the world in the soft hues of twilight, the doorbell rang. John, already on edge from a day of spilled milk and Kevin’s teething cries, froze. His heart thudded against his ribs, a primal instinct warning him of something momentous. He walked slowly to the door, each step heavier than the last, as if the floor itself resisted him. Kevin was asleep in his crib, the apartment quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator. John held his breath as he turned the knob and opened the door.

There you were. Standing on the doorstep, your silhouette framed by the fading light. Your hair was tangled, your eyes hollowed by months of running, but it was you. The sight of you hit John like a physical blow, a storm of emotions crashing over him—anger, sharp and searing.