I was seven months pregnant – exhausted in that deep, heavy way that makes even walking feel like pushing through water.

But Lily, my five-year-old, was bouncing beside the cart like this was a special outing instead of just another day I was trying to keep everything from falling apart.
“Mommy, can we get a teddy bear for the baby?” she asked, gripping the cart with both hands.

“We’ll see, sweetheart,” I said with a tired smile. “Let’s grab what we really need first.”

Diapers. Bottles. A pale yellow blanket I held to my cheek a moment too long, picturing a tiny newborn curled against me. For a few minutes, it almost felt normal.

Then I turned into the next aisle—and everything inside me dropped.

My husband stood near the stroller section, dressed sharp as ever, polished and confident. And beside him stood a woman with sleek hair and a smile that didn’t belong in a place meant for families