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.
For the first week, he played the part.
He held me while I cried.
He made tea I couldn’t drink.
He said the right words about trying again and getting through it together.
Then he started pulling away.
At first it was subtle.
More time “at work.”
More phone glances.
More smiles he erased the second he caught me watching.
And then the business trips began.
Greenfield.
Riverside.
Weekend “meetings.”
Excuses stacked like receipts.
I was too tired to fight for attention from the man who had promised to never leave me alone in the dark.
So I told myself it was stress.
I told myself I was being paranoid.
I told myself the Henderson account was real.
Then my sister Delaney announced she was pregnant three months after my loss.
And the room exploded with celebration like my grief had never existed.
That’s when I realized something brutal:
My pain didn’t end.
It just got replaced.
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