Six weeks later - Elena at 8 and a half months pregnant
I was finally discharged.
Six weeks in the hospital. Forty-two days of absolute rest, monitors, medication.
But it worked.
Bella was strong. Healthy. Pregnancy stabilized. And Dr. Santos finally agreed: I could go home.
With restrictions, of course. Relative rest. No stress. No events. But... home.
"Ready?" Enzo asked, pushing a wheelchair (hospital rule, even though I can walk).
"More than ready," I replied, hand on my enormous belly. "Bella too. She hates this place. She kicks every time a nurse comes in."
"Smart daughter," he smiled.
Daughter.
Our daughter.
A word I now said naturally. Without weight. Without guilt.
Because in the last few weeks—thanks to the therapy I finally took seriously—I learned something important:
Bella wasn't a problem. She wasn't a tragedy. She wasn't a punishment. It was... a baby. My daughter. Who deserved a balanced mother, not a hysterical one.
