What he didn’t know is that the universe has a strange sense of timing.
That same night, you stood in a bathroom with a cheap pregnancy test trembling between your fingers.
The second line appeared, bold and undeniable, and your knees nearly gave out.
You pressed a hand to your stomach and laughed and sobbed at the same time.
You were pregnant.
And not with one baby.
Two.
Twins.
For a moment you felt something like joy, and then the fear kicked in like a door to the ribs.
Because you were alone.
Because your rent was due.
Because the father of your children had just declared you unworthy of motherhood before he even knew you’d become one.
You didn’t call Marco.
You didn’t beg.
You didn’t send a message with a photo of the test like a weapon.
You swallowed your pain and turned it into fuel.
You took whatever job you could get, then another, then another.
You learned how to stretch groceries into meals and meals into survival.
When morning sickness tried to knock you down, you leaned on the counter and breathed until the room stopped spinning.
When strangers looked at your belly with judgment, you stared back like you had nothing left to lose.
