On countless nights, I'd held my two sleeping children, gazing at their delicate faces, and felt my heart fill with comfort. They were so good, so well-behaved—never fussing, never complaining. Even though their father was never home. Even when they saw other children with their daddies and felt that quiet sadness, they never once complained to me. Whenever I was upset, they'd reach out with their chubby little hands to wipe the tears from my face, their soft voices cooing: "Mommy, don't be sad. We're here with you. We'll take good care of you when we grow up."
I always thought that even without Max's love, even if life was cold and lonely, as long as I could watch my two babies grow—see them blossom from innocent children into graceful young women, watch them marry and have families of their own—my life would be complete. My life would be happy. I poured all my hope, all my tenderness into them. They were the only light in my dark existence. The only reason I had the courage to live.