Three months ago, after too many predawn mornings and late nights, my blood sugar crashed while I was cleaning and I fainted.
It was just me and the kids at home.
They watched me pass out and… kept sitting on the couch, watching TV. Their mother on the floor meant nothing to them.
I eventually came to and struggled to call 911.
When the EMTs arrived, the twins were complaining: “Seriously? You’re going to the hospital for something this small? What about our breakfast tomorrow?”
After I was discharged, I checked the home security camera footage. They hadn’t even shifted their eyes toward me. That was the day my heart died.
I’d valued them more than my own life. I was the fool.
My sacrifices meant nothing to them. To them I was just the frumpy woman spending Eric’s money.
“We don’t care if you go. You’re just the nanny Dad hired. We’ve got a new mom now.”
Hearing me say I wouldn’t take them, the twins finally slid off their chairs and spoke up—smug little faces full of indifference.
I knew they were trying to get back at me.
Even so, hearing those words from the two children I’d raised cut like a knife.
“Enough. Watch your mouths.”