The Woman in My Home

I thought I could never leave my little girls. But I had to.

My husband told me that the accident was my fault. That I was to blame when our beautiful, funny two-year-old daughter almost died.

So ten months ago I left. I left our isolated house in the wild, windswept village where we lived. I left my little girls. And every day away from them was agony. I missed the soapy smell of their hair and their laughs and the way they played together under the apple tree.

But now I’m back, knocking on my own front door like a stranger.

There’s a woman living in my home. Taking care of my daughters. Sharing a bed with my husband.

And she has a newborn baby.

Everything I thought I knew . . . was a lie.