I thought the hardest part was over when I gave birth — until my husband walked into my hospital room with tears in his eyes and a question I never saw coming.
I’m Hannah, 33, and for years I believed I was building a beautiful life with the man I loved. Michael and I had been together since high school, slowly growing from teenage sweethearts into adults ready to build a family. We worked hard, saved up for a cozy home in New Jersey, and dreamed about the day we would finally become parents.
After three emotional years of fertility struggles, our dream came true. The day the doctor smiled and said, “Congratulations, you’re pregnant,” I cried in Michael’s arms. We painted the nursery, folded tiny onesies, and imagined bedtime stories and first steps.
But as my belly grew, something in Michael changed. The excitement faded from his eyes. His late nights out became more frequent, and the warmth that once filled our home slowly slipped away.
