There are moments that never truly leave a woman.
They don’t fade with time or soften with distance. They settle into the body—into the spine, the breath, the quiet reflex to flinch when the air turns cold or when a certain tone of voice drifts too close. Years later, they return uninvited: as a tightness behind the ribs, a tremor in the hands, a dream that smells like rain and pavement.
For me, that moment began on a slanted driveway in late November. I was eight months pregnant, my balance uncertain, my hands raw from thin paper grocery handles cutting into my skin, while my mother-in-law watched from the porch—warm, dry, and smiling.
All I knew was this: the rain was freezing, my body ached in places I hadn’t known could ache, my baby felt impossibly heavy inside me, and the woman who was supposed to be family was enjoying every second of my struggle.
Chapter One
The Cold That Gets Inside You
November rain in Connecticut doesn’t fall politely. It strikes. It slants sideways, sharp and relentless, driven by wind that seems to search for weakness, soaking through coats, seams, and skin within moments. That night, it had already claimed my boots, my socks, and the hem of my maternity dress by the time I stood at the bottom of the long, sloping driveway of the Halstead estate.
The trunk of the town car stood open before me.
Inside were six grocery bags, swollen and sagging under the weight of glass jars, wine bottles, milk cartons—items carefully chosen to be as heavy as possible. I stared at them, calculating angles, grip, balance, wondering how I was supposed to manage this incline without falling.
“Well?” a voice drifted down from above—dry, amused, untouched by the weather. “They’re not going to carry themselves, Claire.”
I looked up.
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