When I got pregnant, I thought I finally had a family me, Seth, and our baby.
But in my second trimester, Seth left, saying another woman was pregnant and richer.
I gave birth alone, named my daughter Lila, and survived on scraps and whispered promises.
We had nothing, but I clung to her tiny warmth like it was everything I’d never had.
Then one night, Seth returned disheveled, desperate, and holding a hungry baby.
His new wife had left, his son couldn’t be fed, and he asked me for help.
I made him write a confession before I let them in.
As I fed his son, I watched the man who broke me write down his guilt.
Feeding Reign reminded me of who I’d become strong, steady, and fiercely maternal.
Seth made me grilled cheese while I cradled the child he left me for.
But he never asked to see Lila, our daughter.
She slept safe in her crib, untouched by his failure, wrapped in all my love.
Weeks later, child support came, and I started apartment hunting.
Just something warmer, with sunlight for Lila and space for peace.
We’re no longer just surviving we’re living.
And for the first time, I believe we’re going to be more than okay.
