Her son was gone before she ever got to hold him.
In the days that followed, her body ached in cruel ways. Her arms felt empty but heavy, as if they were still meant to carry someone. Milk came in anyway. Life insisted on continuing, even though hers felt like it had stopped.
Her husband stood beside her at the funeral in a black suit that didn’t quite fit. He held her hand, but his grip was loose. His eyes wandered. She thought it was grief. She wanted to believe it was grief.
She buried her child.
And not long after, she realized she had buried the truth too.
Late nights became common. Phone calls taken in the other room. The smell of unfamiliar perfume clinging to his clothes. When she asked, he said she was imagining things—that grief was making her suspicious, unstable.
She apologized for asking.
Then one evening, she found the messages by accident. No drama. No confrontation at first. Just words glowing quietly on a screen, confessing what he never had the courage to say out loud.
He had been unfaithful.
While she was pregnant.
While she was carrying life.
While she was praying for her baby to arrive safely.
