I came home from the hospital with my newborn daughter and found the locks changed.
My husband, Ray, wouldn’t open the door. From inside, he told me to leave. To go to my sister’s. I stood on the porch holding our two-day-old baby, shaking, trying to understand how the man who had cried during her birth could abandon us so suddenly.
I went to my sister’s house believing my marriage was over.
I barely slept. I called him. Texted him. Nothing.
By morning, I decided I’d go back, pack my things, and learn how to be a single mother.
Then someone started pounding on the door.
It was Ray.
He looked frantic. Exhausted. Covered in paint.
“Please,” he begged. “Come with me. It’s life or death.”
Against my better judgment, I went.
When he unlocked the front door, I stopped breathing.
The house had been completely transformed. Fresh paint. Soft lighting. A nursery that looked like something from a dream. A bassinet beside our bed. A rocking chair. Books. Stuffed animals. Above the crib, hand-painted words read: Welcome, Little One.
Ray broke down.
He told me he panicked because the surprise wasn’t finished yet. He wanted to give me a home where I could rest after everything my body had endured.
Instead, he made me think he’d abandoned us.
I held him and cried.
Because love isn’t always perfect.
But sometimes, it shows up covered in paint, trying its best.