I always thought hitting rock bottom would come with some kind of warning.It doesn’t.

Rock bottom feels like drowning in silence. Like lying awake at two in the morning with your hand pressed flat against your belly, listening to the house settle around you, every creak sounding like another thing about to give way. Like standing in your kitchen staring at a pile of unopened envelopes and telling yourself you’ll deal with them tomorrow, then watching tomorrow become next week, next week become a month, and the pile just keeps growing.

I was thirty-four weeks pregnant and completely, terrifyingly alone.

That wasn’t how any of it was supposed to go. I used to be a planner. Color-coded calendars. Six-month budgets. An emergency fund I had built slowly and carefully over years, because I grew up watching my mother panic every time an unexpected bill arrived, and I had promised myself that would never be me. I had a good job in medical billing. I had a house I was proud of, a small two-bedroom on a quiet street with a yard I actually maintained and neighbors I actually knew. I had Lee, who was funny and warm and made the most elaborate Sunday breakfasts and said he wanted kids someday, someday, someday, right up until the moment someday arrived and turned out to be right now.

He left on a Thursday. Packed two bags while I was at work, left his key on the kitchen counter, and sent a text that said he wasn’t ready and he was sorry and he hoped I’d understand.