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My adopted son hadn’t spoken in eight years. On my wedding day, minutes before the ceremony, he grabbed my hand and spoke for the first time since I’d known him. What he said wasn’t “I love you.” It was a secret about my fiancé.
One that explained why my son had been silent all along.
A husband. Two kids. A kitchen table covered in crayon drawings.
Instead, I spent years learning every shade of grief inside doctors’ offices.
Three miscarriages.
The kind where people say, “At least it happened early,” like the length of time you carried them measures whether you’re allowed to be shattered.
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