Alejandro Cruz didn't die at war. He came home. Just not fast enough. Two months after holding his newborn twins-after kissing his exhausted wife and whispering "We're gonna make it"-he steps off the tarmac and straight into a nightmare. The baby monitor is buzzing. The bottles are crusted over. And upstairs, his wife is tangled in the sheets with a man who isn't him. "She used to say my name like it meant something. Now it sounds like an apology." Rose didn't plan to fall apart. She just did. Alone in the dark with two screaming infants and a body that no longer felt like hers, she stopped being a wife and started surviving. When someone reached out-when someone saw her again-she didn't say no. "I love my babies. I love the man I married. But love doesn't mean much when you haven't slept in three days and no one asks if you're okay." Now Alejandro is back. But the version of him that left-the one full of hope and fire and promises? That man is dead. What's left is a stranger with a diaper bag in one hand and divorce papers in the other. And two babies-Marcus and Iris-who don't know how to choose between a mother unraveling and a father made of war. "This isn't a guide. It's a confession. Of everything I should've said. And everything I left too late."
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