Some people say betrayal feels like drowning. You don’t even realize how deep you’ve sunk… until you try to breathe. I found out just how true that is on a cold Tuesday in April. I came home early from a work trip—and what I found hiding behind our guest room door changed everything. That morning, I was sitting in the waiting room of the fertility clinic. The air-conditioning was on full blast like always. I pulled my coat tighter and flipped through a parenting magazine, staring at happy pictures of

There once was a kind-hearted farmer named Andrew Durham. He loved his land more than anything. His family had owned this farm for many generations, stretching back to brave pioneers who had moved west to Kansas long ago, carving out a new life on the rough, wild plains. Andrew’s greatest joy was working the fields, feeling the earth under his hands. As he held his newborn son, Peter, for the first time, Andrew’s face lit up with pride and hope. “With this boy,” he thought, “our family’s legacy will carry

Nancy stood in front of the fresh grave, her heart numb. The chilly autumn wind blew through the cemetery, but she didn’t even feel it. She was too empty inside. Patrick—her husband, her best friend, her everything—was gone. Just like that. “A car crash,” the doctors had said. “It was instant.” Instant? Like that was supposed to make her feel better. It didn’t. Not even a little. Nancy stared at the mound of dirt that now covered Patrick’s coffin. Her eyes didn’t cry anymore. She had cried so much already,