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Twenty years ago, December took everything from me. I was five months pregnant when I lost my baby without warning, leaving behind a silent nursery and a grief so heavy it settled into my bones. A week later, my husband packed his things and told me he needed a family—something he believed I could no longer give him.
By the time Christmas arrived, the house was empty, my phone was silent, and I moved through the days barely holding myself together. I avoided people, cried behind running water, and learned how loneliness can echo louder than any sound. I truly believed my life had ended, even though I was still breathing.
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