I walked into work expecting another long shift on sore feet and swollen ankles, counting down the minutes until I could go home. Instead, I found myself caught in a confrontation that unraveled a secret no one saw coming, least of all me.
The tiny onesie in my hands still smelled of clearance-bin detergent, but I folded it as if it were made of silk. My couch had a permanent dent shaped like me these days, and I’d stopped fighting it. Seven months of pregnancy will do that to a girl.
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