Mom’s arms tightened around me.
“What?”
I showed her the photographs.
She didn’t finish looking through all of them.
Her face changed after the first few.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
That was all she said.
And somehow, hearing kindness instead of explanation or excuse made me cry even harder.
I spent the afternoon curled on my childhood bed.
It was the same room where I had once worried about exams, friendships, bad haircuts, and whether some boy would call me back.
Those problems seemed almost sweet now.
My marriage was ending.
My child hadn’t even been born yet.
Every version of the future I had imagined was collapsing at once.
I kept thinking about practical things.
Where would the baby and I live?
Could I afford everything alone?
How would custody work?
Would Daniel bring another woman around our son?
Would I have to hand over my newborn child to a man I suddenly felt I didn’t know?
