I was 34 weeks pregnant, standing in a house that didn’t feel like mine anymore, surrounded by unpaid bills and the echo of someone who had already left. Lee hadn’t even argued when I told him I was keeping the baby. He just… disappeared, like I’d become something inconvenient overnight.
That morning, the call from the bank made it official.
Foreclosure.
I didn’t even remember ending the conversation. I just stood there with my hand on my stomach, whispering apologies to a child who hadn’t even entered the world yet.
“I’m trying,” I told her softly. “I really am.”
She kicked, strong and stubborn, like she already understood more than I did.
I needed air, something that didn’t feel like panic. So I stepped outside, blinking against the heat, the kind that presses against your skin and makes breathing feel like work.
That’s when I saw Mrs. Higgins.
