I grew up with three younger sisters, which teaches you early how chaos works. Judy, now 30, was effortlessly beautiful—the kind of person who got free drinks and favors without trying. Lizzie, the middle sister, was calm, sharp, and logical to a fault. And Misty, the youngest, was dramatic, impulsive, and somehow both the baby and the boss of the family.
I was the oldest. The responsible one. The fixer. The one everyone called when they needed help—and I always showed up.

When I met Oliver, it felt like someone was finally showing up for me.

He worked in IT, had a calm, grounding presence, and made me laugh until my sides hurt. He brought me tea during migraines and tucked me in when I fell asleep watching crime documentaries. Two years into our marriage, we had a rhythm—inside jokes, takeout Fridays, lazy Sundays in pajamas.
I was six months pregnant with our first child.
Then one Thursday evening, he came home late.
I was cooking when he stood in the doorway, pale and rigid, and said, “Lucy… we need to talk.”
I expected bad news. Something fixable. A layoff. A car problem.
Instead, he said, “Judy’s pregnant.”
At first, I laughed. I thought it was a mistake.
But he didn’t correct me. Continue reading…