I thought the worst pain of my life was already behind me.
Six months earlier, I lost my baby at sixteen weeks.
Not “a miscarriage” the way people say it like it’s a weather update.
A loss that hollowed me out so completely I started moving through days like a person-shaped shadow.
Grief did strange things.
It made every pregnant stranger feel like a personal attack.
It made my body feel like it was mocking me—still changing, still reminding me, even though there was nothing there anymore.
And it exposed something I didn’t want to see:
How quickly people get tired of your pain.
My husband, Mason, was supposed to be my rock.
