I'll never forget the day I found out I was pregnant.
It was supposed to be a moment of joy—something magical, a new chapter. But standing there in the bathroom, staring at the faint pink lines on the test kit, I felt… nothing. Or maybe, I felt everything at once—fear, sadness, and a deep, gnawing loneliness that seemed to rise from my chest and choke me.
I sat down on the cold bathroom floor, the test trembling in my hands, my mind blank. Outside the bathroom door, the house was silent. Steve hadn't come home again.
When I finally told him the next evening, his reaction was as cold as the rain pouring outside our window.
"Okay. We'll figure it out," he muttered without even lifting his eyes from his phone. No smile, no excitement, no embrace.
I stood there, waiting for him to say more. To at least look at me. To say he was happy. That we would be okay.
But nothing came.
The days that followed felt heavier than ever.
Morning sickness hit me hard. I would curl up on the bathroom floor, vomiting until my throat felt raw, tears streaming down my face as I held my belly, whispering, "It's okay, baby… Mommy's here."
But where was he?
Most nights, Steve didn't come home until long after midnight. When he did, he reeked of alcohol and cigarettes. I stopped asking him where he had been. Every time I tried, it ended with harsh words or slammed doors.
So I learned to stay quiet.
I went to my first prenatal appointment alone.
Walking into that clinic felt like walking into a world I didn't belong to. Everywhere I looked, women were glowing, smiling, their husbands sitting close, hands protectively placed over their pregnant bellies.
And there I was—alone.
When the nurse called my name, my heart sank. Sitting on the examination table, I couldn't hold back the tears anymore. I wiped them away quickly before the doctor came in, forcing a smile, pretending I was okay.
But I wasn't.
The doctor asked, "Is the father joining you later?"
I swallowed the lump in my throat and shook my head. "No. He's… busy."
I drove myself home that day under heavy rain, my vision blurred not just by the downpour but by my own tears. The windshield wipers worked furiously, but the storm outside couldn't compare to the one inside me.
For the first time, as I placed a protective hand over my belly at a red light, I whispered, "Is this really the life I wanted?"
The car horn behind me snapped me back to reality. I drove on through the storm, alone—just like I had to face everything else.
That night, lying in bed with my hands over my growing belly, I made a silent promise to my unborn child:
"I don't know how yet, but one day… Mommy will give you a better life than this."
Even if it meant breaking my own heart.