My husband’s best friend bet him I’d cry when they served me divorce papers…

Then it came again. I dropped the knife. Both hands flew to my stomach and I stood there, stunned and smiling, tears catching me off guard.

It wasn’t just a kick. It was a reminder. A rhythm.

A message. You’re not alone. He was real.

Growing. Strong. And so was I. That night I wrote in my journal for the first time in weeks.

I kept the entry short but deliberate. This baby will never hear yelling through a door. Never feel like they’re walking on glass.

Never confuse fear for love. I underlined the last line twice. My world had gotten smaller.

But warmer. Softer in all the right places. My cousin Elena moved into the guest room during my second trimester.

She arrived with two suitcases and a basket of homemade lavender muffins, wearing her usual oversized hoodie and the same gold hoops she’d worn since college. I’m not letting you do this alone, she said. And anyway, you need someone to stop you from eating pickles and ice cream together.

We fell into a rhythm almost immediately. She worked remotely from the kitchen table, wore fuzzy socks in July, and didn’t ask about Brandon unless I brought him up. Which I rarely did.

That part of the story was no longer worth repeating. Jenny dropped by every few days with groceries and warm casseroles and baby name books with silly post-it notes inside. Page 37.

Do not name her Tiffany. Not because it’s a bad name, she explained once, laughing over tea. Just because I had a Tiffany in middle school who cut my hair with safety scissors during art class.

We laughed more in those months than I had in years. We didn’t talk about court filings or lawyers or any of the old wounds Brandon left behind. We talked about recipes, crib colors, what kind of stroller folded easiest, and whether her ex was secretly stalking her Pinterest boards.

It was the first time in a long time that silence wasn’t something I feared, but something I shared. The baby’s room took shape slowly. I painted the walls soft yellow and filled it with thrifted furniture I refinished myself.

One coat of warm paint at a time. A rocking chair arrived in a giant box, and Elena spent three hours trying to assemble it before throwing down the instructions and declaring, This is your villain origin story. We laughed until our faces hurt.

One quiet Sunday I pulled a box from the back of the hallway closet. I knew what it was the moment I touched it. The slight crackle of the satin ribbon, the faint scent of cedar clinging to the edges.

Our wedding photos. I sat on the living room floor and opened the lid. There we were, frozen smiles and vows wrapped in white lace.

His hands around my waist. My eyes full of dreams that had since burned to ash. I didn’t cry.

I didn’t even flinch. I slid each photo into a separate envelope and labeled the box. To release…