My twins were only three days old.
Tiny. Fragile. Perfect.
I sat in the back seat between their car seats, one hand resting gently on each blanket as if my touch alone could promise them safety. Noah and Emma slept peacefully despite the storm, their soft breathing the only thing keeping my heart steady. My body still ached from childbirth; every movement sent sharp reminders through my abdomen, but none of that mattered. I had survived a difficult marriage, a painful divorce, and months of fear. Holding my babies felt like stepping into light after years of darkness.
My younger brother, Ethan, drove silently. My mother sat stiffly beside him, staring forward, arms crossed. My father sat next to me in the back, angled away as though proximity to me embarrassed him.
No one had spoken for nearly twenty minutes.
The silence felt intentional.
Punishing.
