My name is Ava Mitchell. I’m thirty-five years old, and the day that was supposed to celebrate my miracle almost destroyed my life.
It started like a dream.
The house was glowing with soft lights, pink and white decorations everywhere, laughter filling every corner. My baby shower. After seven long years of trying—seven years of heartbreak, doctor visits, silent prayers, and disappointment—I was finally pregnant.
Seven years of pretending I was okay when I wasn’t.
And through all of it, there was one person who never let me fall.
My husband, Ethan Mitchell.
He never blamed me. Not once. When others whispered, he stood louder. When I broke, he held me together. “We have time,” he would say, squeezing my hand. Calm. Patient. Kind. The kind of man you don’t question.
The kind of man I trusted with everything.
And now, we had made it. A new beginning.
I rested my hand on my stomach and smiled. This is real.
Ethan walked toward me holding a small gift box. “For you,” he said softly.
“You’ve already given me everything,” I replied.
He smiled. “Not enough.”
That was Ethan—always thinking he could do more, even when he was already everything I needed.