That afternoon, when my husband offered to run to the supermarket, I didn’t think much of it. We needed milk, vegetables, and a few other everyday things. It was a normal errand, nothing special. But just as he was heading out the door, I realized I was almost out of sanitary pads. “Hey… can you grab a pack for me too?” I asked casually, expecting the usual chain of confusion that came with such requests. Normally, this meant a flood of messages from the store—blurry photos of shelves, questions about

My name is Laura Méndez, and when my life completely changed, I was eight months pregnant. We lived in Valencia, in a calm, sunlit neighborhood where the houses all looked almost the same, and neighbors exchanged polite nods from their gardens. Our home had been in my husband Javier’s family for generations. It carried their history—the smell of polished wood, the old clock ticking steadily in the hallway, the faded photos of weddings and birthdays lining the walls. To Javier, it was a house full of love and memories. To

Christmas has always meant one thing to me: family. That’s why, for the last four years, my husband Ethan, our seven-year-old daughter Maddie, our five-year-old son Noah, and I had made it our special tradition to escape to the islands every Christmas. No noise. No stress. No endless dinners or awkward conversations. Just the four of us, warm sunshine, sandy toes, and time to breathe before the chaos of the holidays began. This year was supposed to be exactly the same. But the moment we pulled into our driveway after