Her name was Kara. Between shivers, she told me how her father had thrown her out when he learned she was pregnant. The baby’s father had disappeared. She had been surviving on fear and instinct alone. Looking at her, I recognized the same desperation I had felt hours earlier in that church. “Come with me,” I said. “Just for tonight. Food. Warmth. We’ll figure out the rest later.”
The drive home was filled with dread. I was bringing a newborn into the heart of my wife’s grief, and I feared it might destroy what little of her remained. When we reached the house, Milo began crying loudly. I opened the door, and Hannah stood there, frozen.
Her eyes moved from Kara to the baby. Pain flashed across her face—raw and unbearable—but beneath it was recognition. For a moment, I thought she would turn away. Instead, after a long silence, she stepped aside and whispered, “Come in.”
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