When I lost my baby at 19 weeks, I thought the worst thing I’d ever face was grief. I had no idea my husband and my best friend were already sharing a secret that would shatter everything. But a year later, karma handed them a “gift” I never could’ve imagined.
My husband, Camden, was always steady, predictable, and calm. He was the kind of man you could build a life with. After years of heartbreak, that was exactly what I wanted.
When we discovered I was pregnant, the first person I told was Elise, my best friend since college. Elise was all sharp angles and blinding charisma, the kind of woman who was so effortlessly magnetic that you just wanted to be near her. She was my chosen sister.
My family. Honestly, her reaction to the news was bigger than mine. She bought miniature socks with whales on them before I was even 12 weeks along.
She was the one who dissolved into tears when I showed her the first grainy ultrasound photo. But, at 19 weeks, the tiny, fluttering life inside me just… stopped. Camden, my rock, my “solid” husband, cried for 20 minutes, held me tight for one night, and then never mentioned the baby again.
He started taking long, late “walks,” and sleeping with his back turned to me like a concrete barrier. I was drowning, and he was swimming away. Elise backed off, too, and that really stung.
When I asked why, she texted: “It just hurts to see you grieving. I’ll come when I can.”
Six weeks later, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Elise.
I thought she was going to offer her support at last, but instead she dropped a bombshell on me. “Big news!! I’m pregnant!!
Please come to my gender reveal next Saturday ❤️”
I ran to the bathroom and threw up every ounce of bitterness and shock in my stomach. Not metaphorically, either. Ten minutes later, Camden walked in.
When I showed him the text, his body locked up, his eyes went blank, and his mouth snapped shut. “I can’t go,” I said, still curled up beside the toilet. “It’s too soon… it hurts too much.”
What he said next shocked me to the core.
“You have to go, Oakley,” he insisted. “It’s important to her. You can’t make this about you.”
You can’t make this about you.
I should have known right then and there that something was going on, but I was still wading through my grief, trying to get through it one day at a time.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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