Your name is Liza, and five years ago your life got evicted before you did.
You still remember the taste of dust in your mouth from crying on the floor while Marco stood over you like you were a problem he’d finally solved.
He didn’t yell because he was angry. He yelled because he wanted the sound to stick.
“You’re useless as a wife, Liza,” he said. “You’re poor. And you can’t even give me children.”
You remember the way his words landed with the casual cruelty of someone throwing trash into a bin.
“You’re a burden,” he added, voice sharp with satisfaction. “I’m leaving. I’ll find a rich woman who can actually support me.”
Then he walked out and left you in a small, empty apartment with nothing but echo and shame.
He thought he had won because you were still on the floor when the door closed.
What he didn’t know is that the universe has a strange sense of timing.
That same night, you stood in a bathroom with a cheap pregnancy test trembling between your fingers.
The second line appeared, bold and undeniable, and your knees nearly gave out.
You pressed a hand to your stomach and laughed and sobbed at the same time.
You were pregnant.
And not with one baby.
