I stared out the window at passing fields and bare trees. “I want to believe she can be better,” I admitted.
My mother nodded. “Then let her show you,” she said. “Not with words. With choices.”
Part 7
A year after the wedding, two pink lines changed everything.
I stared at the pregnancy test in my bathroom like it might blink and turn into a joke. My hands shook, and my heart did that strange leap between excitement and fear.
When I told David, he went completely still, then laughed—one bright, disbelieving sound—and pulled me into a hug so tight I squeaked.
“We’re having a baby?” he whispered.
“We’re having a baby,” I whispered back, and suddenly I was crying.
We told my parents first. My dad lifted me off the ground like I was still a teenager and spun me around until my mother scolded him for being ridiculous.
Then we told Margaret.
I expected her to react with polite excitement—something measured and socially acceptable.
Instead, her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh,” she whispered, stepping closer. “Oh, Sarah.”
She hugged me. A real hug. Not stiff, not performative. Her arms tightened around my shoulders, and I felt her inhale shakily, as if she’d been holding her breath for years.