The officer didn’t have to say much, just the words “car crash” and “instant,” and my world broke into pieces.
Every corner of our apartment reminded me of him, and the silence pressed down heavier than the grief itself.
For a while, I couldn’t breathe or eat. I just curled up in our bed, wrapped in one of his old hoodies, trying to remember how to exist. Then the nausea hit, relentless and unshakable. I thought it was grief making me sick, until the doctor told me I was pregnant with twins.
Twins.
Ethan would’ve cried happy tears. Me? I was terrified.
I was barely functioning, and now I had two lives growing inside me. The doctor told me my pregnancy was high-risk. I had to go on strict bed rest and be constantly monitored. I couldn’t live alone anymore.
I didn’t have many options. My mom passed when I was a teen, and Ethan’s parents had retired and moved to Arizona. So, I called my dad.
Dad’s house wasn’t really his house anymore, not since he remarried Veronica. She was much younger than he was, glamorous in a sharp-edged, magazine-cover kind of way, with shiny blonde hair and perfect nails that never looked like they’d done a day’s work.
Still, I hoped we could make it work. I needed help, and he was all I had.
Dad welcomed me without hesitation. He hugged me tight when I arrived, his gray eyes kind and tired.
