The first time I said the number out loud, it felt unreal—twenty-five thousand three hundred forty-seven dollars. I knew the exact figure because I checked the balance almost every night, sometimes more than once, as if watching it closely could keep it safe. That money was not for a vacation or a new car or even a home. It was for a high-risk delivery, a Level IV NICU stay, and the looming possibility of open-heart surgery for my unborn daughter. It represented security in a world that had unraveled with terrifying speed. When my husband Jason died in a construction accident while I was five months pregnant, the future split in two: before and after.

Before was laughter in the kitchen, arguments over baby names, hands resting on my belly in awe. After was a knock on the door, two solemn officers, and a silence so heavy it felt like gravity had doubled. His life insurance had lapsed after one missed payment during a chaotic season of overtime shifts. The company offered a reduced settlement, and I accepted because grief strips you of the strength to negotiate. Funeral expenses consumed most of it. Debt swallowed more.