I thought the worst part of that morning would be the cold biting through my coat or the ache in my pregnant body. I had no idea that returning home would unravel everything I believed about my marriage.
I’m six months pregnant with our third baby, and that day started the way so many others had, with small routines and quiet expectations.
The twins were already awake that morning; their voices drifting down the hallway as they argued over whose turn it was to hold the blue cup.
They were three years old and stubborn in the way only toddlers could be.
I moved slower than usual, one hand braced against the counter, the other pressed to my belly as the baby rolled.
I was tired, sore, and thinking only about keeping the morning calm.
When I opened the fridge, my chest tightened. “I can’t believe we’re out of milk.”
I said it out loud to no one at first, staring into the fridge as if another carton might magically appear if I looked long enough.
