By the time my mother died, I felt like something inside me had already gone quiet. She was my anchor, my first call, the one person I thought would still be there when everything else fell apart. I was nine months pregnant when we buried her. I remember standing at the grave, one hand on my swollen belly, thinking, At least I’m not alone. I still have my family.
I was wrong.
Two weeks later, I found out my husband was cheating. Not rumors. Not suspicions. Proof. Messages, photos, plans for a future that didn’t include me or the baby growing inside me. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just felt… empty. Like my body was going through the motions while my heart had stepped out of the room.
continued on next page
