At thirty-seven weeks pregnant, getting ready for date night felt less like romance and more like an Olympic sport.
I stood in front of the mirror, one hand pressed into the small of my back, the other resting instinctively over the curve of my belly.
“You’re doing great,” I muttered to my reflection.
The woman staring back at me still surprised me sometimes.
Soft, Glowing and Loved.
A year ago, I wouldn’t have recognized her.
A year ago, I was surviving.
Now I was living.
I adjusted the strap of the black dress and exhaled slowly, letting the memories settle the way they always did when I paused long enough.
The night I told him about the pregnancy still played in flashes.
My grandmother’s kitchen.
The tremble in my hands.
The way my voice cracked when I said the words.
And t
