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I stared at her, unable to speak. My body felt hollow in every possible way. I had spent weeks imagining names, saving nursery ideas, and touching my stomach in private when no one was watching. Ethan and I hadn’t told many people yet, but Linda had found out almost immediately and made the pregnancy about herself. She boasted to her friends that she was finally getting the grandchild she “deserved.” She criticized what I ate, how much I slept, and whether I was “taking care of her grandson properly,” even though we didn’t even know the baby’s sex.

Now the baby was gone, and still she turned it into something about control.

“Mom,” Ethan said quietly, a warning in his voice.

But Linda rolled her eyes. “What? Am I supposed to cry? These things happen. Claire is young. She can try again. Honestly, the dramatic behavior is unhealthy.”

I turned to Ethan, waiting for him to act, to speak, to defend me the way a husband should. He looked shattered, but grief had slowed him, left him uncertain. He opened his mouth, then closed it. And that hurt almost as much as Linda’s words.

A nurse entered the room and immediately sensed the tension. She asked Linda to step outside. Linda let out a dry laugh as she left, muttering, “People are too sensitive now.”

The moment the door closed, I broke. I cried so hard I could barely breathe. Ethan sat beside me, holding my hand, apologizing over and over, but I couldn’t stop hearing Linda’s voice: Then have another one.

That evening, after I was discharged, Ethan drove me home in silence. I thought the worst had passed. I thought I could lock the door, crawl into bed, and grieve in peace.

But when we pulled into the driveway, Linda’s car was already there.

And inside my house, the nursery door was open.