For nine months, I lived with constant anxiety. Every check-up, every scan, every loving gesture from my husband felt like a reminder of my guilt. He was so excited. So proud. He would gently place his hand on my growing belly and smile in a way that made me feel even worse.
“You’re going to be an amazing mother,” he would say.
And I would smile back, pretending I deserved to hear it.
At night, while he slept peacefully next to me, I would lie awake, staring into the darkness, imagining everything falling apart. I rehearsed telling him the truth over and over in my mind—but the words never left my mouth.
I told myself I was sparing him the pain.
But deep down, I knew I was protecting myself.
Then the day finally came.
Our son was born on a quiet morning, after hours of labor that felt both endless and fleeting at the same time. When I held him for the first time, everything else faded away. He was perfect—small, warm, breathing softly against me.
For a brief moment, the fear disappeared.
Maybe it wouldn’t matter, I thought. Maybe love would be enough.
