Last Christmas, I Reached My Husband’s Parents’ Home Early, Holding My Hope Quietly Because I Was Pregnant. But Instead Of Joy, He Accused Me Of Carrying My Boss’s Child. His Words Cut Deeper Than Any Wound, And He Filed For Divorce The Same Day. Three Weeks Later, When I Returned With The Truth, EVERY SINGLE FACE IN THE ROOM TURNED PALE

Boston. The Harborview Hotel Restoration Project. At thirty-two years old, it was the biggest opportunity of my architectural career—a historic landmark that needed complete structural redesign while preserving its 1920s character. Grant Chamberlain, my boss, had trusted me to lead the entire design team. Fifteen people reporting to me. Millions of dollars in budget. It was everything I’d worked toward since graduating from design school.

But three weeks ago, something shifted. I started waking up nauseous. Not violently sick, just this persistent queasiness that made coffee smell like gasoline and turned my favorite breakfast bagel into something I couldn’t even look at. I was exhausted by two in the afternoon, struggling to keep my eyes open during client presentations. And I cried watching a dog food commercial in my hotel room. Actually cried over a golden retriever puppy reuniting with its owner.

At first, I blamed the stress. Eighty-hour work weeks will do that to you—the pressure of managing a team, dealing with contractors who didn’t want to take direction from a woman, fighting with the historical preservation board over every single design choice.

Then I missed my period.

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