The drive from the airport felt like the longest thirty minutes of my life, and I spent most of it smiling. I remember thinking that nothing in the world could ruin that moment.
I was deeply mistaken.
I pulled into the driveway, sat in the truck for a quiet moment, then stepped out and walked up to the porch. Something felt wrong before I even touched the brass handle.
No lights in the windows. No quiet sound of music, no everyday sounds of a home caring for two new infants.
I stood at the door with the flowers in my right hand and the yellow sweaters tucked under my left arm.
Then I slowly pushed the door open.
“Brenda? Mom? Guys… I’m home…”
The walls were bare. The furniture was gone. Every single memory we had built our life on had been stripped away. The rooms I had memorized from photographs were now just empty, silent spaces.
