This was pressure. This was control. This was a marriage turning into punishment.
And deep inside, a quiet thought started forming—sharp and dangerous.
What if the problem isn’t me?
Three months after the second loss, Nyla stopped expecting comfort from Terrence. She stopped expecting kindness from Ivonne. She stopped expecting anything good from that family.
But one thing she could not stop was hope.
Hope is stubborn like that.
So when Nyla’s body started changing again, she didn’t tell anyone. Not Terrence. Not Ivonne. Not even Kesha.
She just sat on the edge of the bed one night staring at another test with two clear lines and whispering the same prayer like a broken record.
Please… just let this one stay.
This time Nyla moved differently.
She took prenatal vitamins quietly. She drank more water. She rested when Terrence wasn’t watching.
And she started hiding small baby items like secret treasure—a tiny pair of socks, a neutral-colored onesie, a soft blanket folded neatly at the bottom of her drawer.
She didn’t buy much. She was too scared to invite disappointment.
But she couldn’t help it.
Because even after pain, a mother still dreams.
But Terrence noticed her silence, and instead of softening, he grew colder.
He started coming home later. Not traffic-late. Not work-ran-long late.
Late like someone didn’t want to come home.
