A nurse placed my son in my arms. He was bundled tight, his tiny face pink and safe. When he stirred and let out a soft whimper, I broke. I cried so hard my ribs ached.
Not just from fear.
From betrayal.
I had loved that man. I had defended him to friends who said he was selfish. I had believed him when he promised we would build a life together.
And he had thrown us away in a storm.
The weeks after that were survival in its rawest form. A friend let me sleep on her couch. I learned how to function on two hours of sleep at a time. I rocked my son through colic while my own heart felt like shattered glass. Every time he wrapped his tiny fingers around mine, guilt washed over me.
I chose his father.
I believed him.
One afternoon, a social worker named Mrs. Harper sat across from me at a small wooden table. A blue folder rested between us.
“You qualify for emergency housing and financial support,” she said kindly. “But there’s something else.”
She slid the folder toward me.