My sister Julia came to stay with me for a while.
She cooked.
Held babies.
Did laundry.
Helped with bath time.
And whenever I apologized for needing help, she stopped me.
“You carried three babies, Belinda. Stop apologizing for being human.”
Eventually, I filed for legal separation.
David occasionally checked in to ask about the triplets.
He never pushed.
Never attempted to make himself part of the story.
He simply asked if we were okay.
A year later, I stood in my kitchen watching Mandy, Randy, and Tobby chase each other around the coffee table.
My body was stronger.
The house was quieter.
And when I laughed, I no longer wondered whether someone might use that laughter against me.
For years, I had believed dignity meant learning to endure humiliation gracefully.
I thought strength meant smiling through the things that hurt.
I was wrong.
Dignity isn’t something you recover by making yourself smaller.
