At a small market near the airport, I found two hand-knitted sweaters in yellow, because my mother had written to say she was decorating the nursery in yellow. Then I bought white flowers from a roadside stall because white had always been Mara’s favorite.
I didn’t call ahead. I wanted to surprise my wife.
I imagined the door opening. Her face. The girls. God… I was so excited.
He cried on the phone when I told him.
The drive from the airport felt like the longest 30 minutes of my life, and I spent most of it smiling. I remember thinking nothing could ruin that moment.
I was wrong.
***
I pulled into the driveway and sat there for a second, then stepped out and walked up to the porch. Something felt off before I even touched the door.
No light in the windows. No sound of a television or music, or the particular domestic noise of a home with two new infants in it.
I remember thinking nothing could ruin that moment.
I stood at the door with the flowers in one hand and the sweaters tucked under my arm.
Then I slowly pushed the door open.
“Mara? Mom? Guys… I’m back…”
The walls were bare. The furniture was gone. Every surface we had built our home on had been cleared away, and the rooms I had memorized from a photograph were now just empty rooms.
Then I heard crying from upstairs.
I moved up the stairs as fast as I could manage, pain shooting through my prosthetic with every step.
