His wife, Vanessa, survived almost unharmed.

I held onto the doorframe to steady myself.

My child was gone.

David’s funeral took place two days later. I moved through the service like a ghost while people hugged me and whispered condolences.

Vanessa cried loudly through most of it. At the time, I believed her sorrow was genuine.

I didn’t yet know it was the last day she would pretend.

Two days after the funeral, the doorbell rang.

When I opened the door, my two-year-old twin grandsons stood there in their pajamas.

Jeffrey held a stuffed dinosaur. George stood beside him with his thumb in his mouth.

Next to them sat a large trash bag filled with clothes.

Vanessa pushed the bag toward me.

“I’m not meant for this kind of life,” she said coldly. “I want to live freely.”

I stared at her in disbelief. “Vanessa… these are your children.”

“They’ll be better off with you,” she replied flatly. “You don’t have much else going on anyway.”

Then she turned, got into her car, and drove away.

Just like that.

Jeffrey tugged at my sleeve and whispered, “Up?”

I knelt down and wrapped my arms around both boys.