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.
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.
But now, even that light had been snuffed out by Max's own hands. My children. My babies, whom I'd nearly died bringing into this world. My daughters, whom I'd cherished for five years. Gone. Gone forever. From now on, my life held nothing but endless darkness and despair. Not a single ray of light remained.
Dawn was just breaking, the night not yet fully faded, the air carrying a bone-deep chill. The funeral home stood in solemn silence, the faint smell of disinfectant mingling with grief. The cremation chamber doors slowly closed, blocking my last glimpse of my children. I stood outside, my body rigid, like a statue stripped of its soul. My tears had long since run dry, leaving only the burning ache behind my eyes and the hollow void in my chest.
I don't know how much time passed before a staff member carefully placed two small urns in my hands, murmuring, "My condolences."