Daniel had kissed me goodbye that morning and smiled at my growing belly.
“See you tonight, sweetheart.”
“Don’t be late,” I teased him.
“I wouldn’t miss dinner with my two favorite girls.”
Hours later, a police officer knocked on our door.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said. “Your husband was killed in a car accident.”
I couldn’t believe it. Daniel and I had spent eight years together, dreaming of having a baby. Now everything had fallen apart.
At 30 weeks pregnant, I buried my husband.
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