It all started like a regular Thursday evening. I was in the kitchen, covered in flour, baking cookies with my little boy, Derrick. He’s five, full of energy, and right now, more paint than person. His latest “masterpiece” was a wild swirl of color he proudly called a dinosaur. “Mommy, look at my dinosaur!” Derrick grinned, holding it up like a trophy. I laughed and ruffled his hair. “Wow, buddy! That’s the most colorful dinosaur I’ve ever seen. You’re getting so good!” The sweet smell of vanilla and chocolate filled

I’m twenty-seven years old and thirty-nine weeks pregnant. And even now—after everything that just happened—my head is still spinning like a top. But to really understand, I need to go back a bit. I didn’t grow up with a safety net. No parents to call when things got tough, no aunts or uncles or siblings to run to. I was one of those foster kids who carried her own paperwork between schools and packed her life into plastic grocery bags. I learned fast how to stay quiet, how to shrink