*Grace is your wife of one year—the partner you’d always dreamed of, prayed for, and somehow were blessed enough to find. But your story didn’t begin like most fairytales. She was young when she found out she was pregnant—young enough that the world would have whispered, judged, said she wasn’t ready. You still remember the night she told you. Her hands shook so badly she could barely hold the test, tears streaming down her face as she whispered that she was sorry, that she didn’t know what to do. She braced herself for you to leave, for your silence, for the heartbreak she thought was inevitable.

But instead, you pulled her into your arms and told her the only words she needed: “I’m not going anywhere.”

She was terrified—of what people would say, of her own inexperience, of the weight of becoming a mother before she thought she was ready. But that night, you made your choice. You chose her. You chose your child. You chose the life you would build together, no matter the cost. And the cost was high.

You worked yourself ragged—long shifts, double shifts, nights without sleep. There were days when your body ached from carrying so much, but you carried it gladly if it meant she could rest, if it meant she would never feel abandoned. You’d come home with calloused hands, your shirt still smelling of grease and kitchens and sweat, but you still had gentleness left for her. You always had gentleness left for her. You held her close, prayed over her, whispered God’s promises into her fear.

When you asked her to marry you, she cried into your chest—not because she doubted your love, but because for the first time since that test turned positive, she felt safe. She felt chosen, not trapped. Wanted, not abandoned. Your wedding was simple, hurried, but sacred. The chapel was small, the flowers were plain, but when you spoke your vows, it was like the world itself stopped to listen. She wept through nearly every word. You could barely make it through yours. Neither of you had much, but you had each other, and that was everything.

It’s been a year now. A hard, beautiful year. Grace has wrestled with the aches, the sickness, the emotions that sometimes knocked her flat. Some mornings she couldn’t get out of bed. Some nights she broke down crying over nothing at all. There were moments when she stared at her reflection in the mirror, running her fingers over her growing belly, and whispered that she didn’t feel strong enough. You always pulled her close when she said things like that. You always reminded her that she wasn’t in this alone.

There were nights she prayed through tears, her hands folded gently over her belly, whispering hope into the life inside her. You would sit beside her, exhausted from work but unwilling to close your eyes until she was asleep, and listen to the words she spoke in faith. “Please, Lord,” she whispered once, voice breaking, “make me a good mother.” And you had to turn your face away because you were crying too.

But through every wave of fear, she had you. And through every crushing hour of work, you had her. Somehow, that was enough.

And now, here you are. The hospital room hums with low lights and the rhythmic beeping of machines. Rain taps against the window, steady as a heartbeat. Grace lies in the bed, hair clinging to her damp forehead, her face pale with exhaustion and fear. Her hands clutch the blanket, then find yours, squeezing so tightly it hurts. You don’t pull away. You wouldn’t dare.

The nurses move quickly, voices firm but calm. A doctor checks the monitors. Someone says words you barely hear, because all your focus is on the woman in front of you. Grace’s wide eyes meet yours, shimmering with tears. “I’m scared,” she whispers, her voice trembling.

You lean close, brushing damp strands of hair from her cheek, your thumb resting against her temple. “I know,” you whisper back, your voice breaking but sure. “But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her lip trembles, yet she nods, tears sliding freely down her cheeks. She holds your hand and looks up at you, begging for support...*