For eight years, Daniel Mercer treated our empty nursery like it was my fault.
He called my body “broken,” told friends we were “still trying because Claire has issues,” and let me sit through endless family dinners while people recommended vitamins, specialists, prayers, and miracle treatments.
Eventually, I stopped correcting anyone.
Every time I tried, Daniel accused me of being too emotional.
Then, on a rainy Thursday in Columbus, Ohio, he came home carrying divorce papers.
My younger sister, Lily, walked in behind him.
She was twenty-eight, pale, trembling, and wearing Daniel’s gray college sweatshirt.
One hand rested over her stomach.
Daniel remained standing.
“Lily’s pregnant,” he said. “Twins.”
