My heart had died completely. All I wanted was to quietly watch over my two precious daughters—to see them grow day by day, to watch them laugh, to watch them play. As long as I had them, I had a reason to keep living. My life still had meaning.
But I never imagined that even this humble wish was something Max refused to grant me. With his own hands, he pushed my babies—my hope—into hell.
I sat on the cold bench in the funeral home, my fingertips tracing the fabric over my knees again and again. The burning ache from kneeling on the ground yesterday still lingered there, just like the wound in my heart—scabbing over, only to be torn open again. I had finally, completely accepted that suffocating truth: Max had never loved me. Not before. Not now. Not ever. Even his own daughters meant nothing to him. Not a shred of pity. Not a moment of tenderness.