I found out I was pregnant with my second child just three weeks after my husband died.

Grief hadn’t even settled yet—it was still sharp, raw, unreal. I was moving through days like a ghost, trying to be strong for my three-year-old son, Noah, who kept asking when Daddy was coming home. I didn’t know how to answer him. I barely knew how to breathe.

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When the test turned positive, I sat on the bathroom floor for a long time, my back against the tub, one hand pressed to my mouth, the other resting on my stomach. I wasn’t afraid of the baby. I was afraid of the world.

I told my mother-in-law the next day. I thought—naively—that despite everything, she would care. That this baby, her son’s child, might soften her grief.

She didn’t even sit down.

“My son is dead,” she said coldly. “Your free ride died with him. Take your kid and your belly and disappear.”

Those were her exact words.

That night, I packed what I could into two suitcases. Noah clutched his stuffed dinosaur and asked if we were going on a trip. I told him yes, because it was easier than explaining that we had nowhere to go.

The shelter smelled like disinfectant and old coffee. The beds were narrow. The lights never fully turned off. I lay awake most nights listening to quiet sobs, babies fussing, the hum of pain and survival all around me. I felt invisible. Small. Ashamed, even though I had done nothing wrong.