There was no answer. Not then.
Days turned into weeks. Her marriage crumbled quietly, without shouting or fighting—just distance, papers, signatures. People told her she was strong. She didn’t feel strong. She felt hollow.
But something strange happened in the silence.
In the early mornings, when grief was loudest, she felt… held. Not physically. Not visibly. But in a way that softened the edges of her pain just enough for her to breathe.
She began to believe that the child she lost had not been taken—but entrusted elsewhere.
That her baby had known only warmth, only love, only peace.
And slowly, painfully, she began to see that the same God who allowed her heart to break was also the One who kept her alive through it.
