I stood beside her coffin, trying to stay strong as my hands trembled, knowing our unborn child rested within her—when a sudden movement from her belly shattered the silence, turning grief into shock as cries for doctors erupted around me.

Because my wife, Lena, was lying in that coffin, and our child—our son, who had been kicking just days before—was supposed to be gone with her.

Seven months pregnant.

Gone.

I leaned forward slightly, my throat tight, my voice barely more than air. “Please… just let me see her one last time.”

The funeral director hesitated, the way people do when they know they’re about to step into something irreversible. He glanced at Lena’s parents, who stood a few feet away, their grief quieter but somehow heavier, like it had settled into their bones.