I’m Penny, 25 weeks pregnant with what we called our miracle baby. After two long years of trying, those pink lines finally appeared, and I believed everything was finally falling into place. But pregnancy had its own plan. The migraines were relentless—light felt like needles, sound like shattered glass. I spent days in darkness, curled up, just trying to exist.
So when my mother-in-law, Martha, called with syrupy concern and said, “Penny, sweetheart, the Fourth of July parade might be too much, don’t you think?” I reluctantly agreed. Steve echoed her, rubbing my back and gently nudging me to rest. I wanted to go. But I was too tired—of the pain, of being questioned, of trying to fit into a family that never really saw me.
