Six months ago, I lost my baby.
Even now, typing those words feels surreal, as though I am talking about someone else’s life instead of my own. Before it happened, I believed grief was loud and dramatic. I thought it would come like a storm—violent, overwhelming, impossible to ignore. I was wrong. Grief was quiet. It settled into my bones and hollowed me out slowly, until I felt like a person-shaped shell moving through the world on autopilot.
My name is Briar Holloway, and I lost my daughter at sixteen weeks.
No one tells you how cruel the aftermath is. How your body still behaves as if it’s holding life when it’s not. How strangers smile at you on the street because they think you’re pregnant, and you don’t have the strength to correct them. No one warns you that every baby commercial, every stroller, every woman with a rounded belly will feel like a knife twisting somewhere deep inside your chest.
My husband, Calvin, was supposed to be my anchor through it all.
For the first few days, he was. He held me when I cried until my throat hurt. He whispered promises about trying again, about how this loss didn’t define us, about how we’d be okay. He made tea I never drank and meals I barely touched. He looked like a man trying very hard to be present.
Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, he began to drift.
It started with late nights at work. Then, overnight trips. The entire weekends he claimed were “unavoidable.” He said his career depended on them. Calvin worked in commercial development, and he insisted a major client—some lucrative contract—was finally within reach. I believed him because believing him was easier than admitting how alone I felt.
One night, while he packed a suitcase yet again, I asked, “Another trip?”
He didn’t look at me as he folded his shirts. “Just a few days. It’s important.”
“It always is.”
He paused briefly, then zipped the bag shut. “This is temporary.”
I nodded. I always nodded. I had no energy left to argue.
By the time two months had passed, our house felt more like a hotel room he occasionally visited. When he was home, he was distracted—checking his phone, smiling at messages he never shared. If I looked at him too long, he’d put the phone face down, as though I’d caught him doing something wrong.
“Who’s that?” I asked once.
“Work,” he replied too quickly.
I wanted to press him. I wanted to demand honesty. But grief makes you tired in ways sleep can’t fix, and I simply didn’t have the strength.
If Calvin’s absence hurt, my sister’s timing nearly broke me.
Serena had always had a talent for stealing the spotlight. Growing up, she couldn’t stand not being the center of attention. When I graduated from college, she announced a sudden engagement. When I got promoted, she conveniently had a “health scare” that turned out to be nothing.
So when she insisted on a family gathering three months after my m.1.s.c.a.r.r.1.a.g.e, I should have known better.
We were all at my parents’ house. My mother cooked her usual comfort food. My father poured wine. The atmosphere was warm, almost normal. I allowed myself to relax for the first time in weeks.
Then Serena stood up, tapped her glass, and smiled in a way that made my stomach sink.
“I have news,” she said, her voice trembling just enough to draw attention.
She placed a hand on her stomach.
“I’m pregnant.”
The room erupted.
My mother screamed with joy. My aunt burst into tears. Everyone rushed toward Serena, hugging her, congratulating her, praising her bravery. I stayed seated, frozen, my hands clenched in my lap.
Then Serena added softly, “The father left. He didn’t want to be involved.”
Gasps filled the room.
“I’m going to be doing this alone,” she continued tearfully. “I’m scared.”
The sympathy doubled. Promises of help poured in. Not one person looked at me.
Not one person remembered I had just buried a future.
I excused myself to the bathroom and threw up.
Three weeks later, the invitation arrived.
Serena was hosting a gender reveal.
Calvin was home that night—one of the few times he was. When I showed him the envelope, he frowned.
“You don’t have to go,” he said.
“She’s my sister.”
“She’s also been incredibly insensitive.”
The acknowledgment startled me. “I’ll go,” I said. “People will talk if I don’t.”
He shrugged. “Your choice.”
“Will you come with me?”
Something flickered across his face. “I can’t. I’ve got a meeting out of town.”
“On a weekend?”
“It’s important.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded.
The party was exactly what I expected—elegant, expensive, and painfully cheerful. White balloons floated everywhere. Guests laughed and played games. Serena wore a flowing dress that emphasized her pregnancy beautifully.
She looked radiant.
She hugged me when I arrived, her belly pressing against mine. “I’m glad you came,” she said.
“Where’s Calvin?” she asked casually.
“Work,” I replied.
She smiled. “Of course he is.”
Something in her tone made my skin prickle.
As the party went on, I felt myself shrinking. Every laugh hurt. Every gift opened felt like salt rubbed into an open wound. Eventually, I slipped away to the back garden, desperate for air.
That’s when I heard them.
“You’re sure she doesn’t know?” Calvin’s voice.
I froze.
Serena laughed softly. “She barely notices anything anymore.”
I looked through the bushes.
They were standing close. Too close.
Then he kissed her.
Not a mistake. Not a peck. A kiss filled with familiarity and comfort.
My world shattered.
I stepped forward without thinking. “What is this?”
They jumped apart. Calvin looked horrified. Serena looked relieved.
“Might as well tell her,” Serena said calmly. “Calvin is the father of my baby.”
The words echoed.
I couldn’t breathe.
“How long?” I whispered.
“Six months,” Calvin said.
Six months. The exact length of my grief.
“You cheated on me while I was losing our child.”
Calvin tried to explain. He talked about wanting to be a father. About doctors. About inevitability. Serena called it “being adults.”
He handed me an envelope.
Divorce papers.
I walked away.
That night, I destroyed everything that reminded me of us. Then I cried until there was nothing left.
The next morning, my phone exploded with messages.
I turned on the news.
Serena’s house was on fire.
A cigarette was left burning. Total loss.
They survived. The baby survived. But everything else was gone.
People called it tragic.
I called it karma.
Weeks later, they showed up at my apartment.
They looked broken.
They asked for forgiveness.
I said no.
I closed the door.
And for the first time since I lost my baby, I felt something other than pain.
I felt free.
Forgiveness is not owed.
Healing is.
