When my twin sons walked through the door that stormy afternoon—rain trailing behind them in thin, shimmering lines, their jackets heavy, their hair clinging to their foreheads—I felt the atmosphere shift before they said a single word.
Mothers have a certain instinct, an invisible thread that tugs the heart when something is wrong. That day, the thread felt like a rope pulled tight around my ribs.
The boys didn’t laugh. They didn’t throw their backpacks to the floor. They didn’t ask what was for dinner. They just stood there, two silhouettes framed in…
