At 33 years old, and thirty-five weeks pregnant, I believed I was standing at the edge of the happiest chapter of my life. I had done everything right. I had loved faithfully, waited patiently, endured quietly, and hoped fiercely.
I thought the hardest part was already behind me. I was wrong. My name is Elena Moore, and until one unforgettable night, I truly believed I was building a solid, loving future with the man I had chosen nearly a decade earlier.
Andrew and I had been together for almost nine years. We met in high school, back when life felt simple, and possibilities felt endless. He was the reserved boy who sat behind me in chemistry class, tall and soft-spoken, always tapping his pen against the desk when he was nervous.
I was the girl who struggled with equations and asked for help more often than I needed to. Somewhere between shared notebooks and whispered jokes, something gentle and steady took root. That young affection grew into late-night drives with the windows down, greasy fries eaten in silence, and conversations about who we might become.
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