Instead, when I walked through the door, my husband Sam was standing there with his arms crossed, looking irritated.
He didn’t even look at the babies.
“You could’ve given birth faster,” he said. “The apartment is filthy.”
I stood there, still in pain, holding our daughters, trying to process what I had just heard.
When I stepped inside, the smell hit me first. It was the kind of smell you’d expect near a dumpster — old food, trash, neglect.
I walked into the living room and froze.
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