Keeping a secret is heavier than telling the truth.
Every day, my body reminded me of what my mouth refused to say. Morning sickness followed me to work. Fatigue clung to my bones during lectures. I learned how to smile while my insides trembled.
I became careful with my steps, careful with my words, careful with my emotions.
He noticed the changes, of course. He always did.
"You're quieter these days," he said once, his voice gentle but searching.
"I'm just tired," I replied, quickly, too quickly.
It was not a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth either.
Fear controlled me. Fear of disappointing him. Fear of becoming a burden. Fear that this fragile life we were trying to build would collapse under the weight of a child we were not prepared for.
I told myself I would speak soon. After exams. After work stabilized. After I found the right words. But days turned into weeks, and silence became my shield.
At night, I lay awake listening to his breathing beside me, wondering how love could feel so close and yet so distant at the same time. I wanted to tell him. I needed to tell him. But courage failed me again and again.
Then the call came.
It was early morning. My phone rang before my alarm, the sound sharp and wrong. Something in my chest tightened before I even answered.
My mother was gone.
The words reached me slowly, as if my mind refused to accept them. I sat frozen, phone pressed to my ear, listening to a world that suddenly felt unreal. The woman who had endured everything for us, who had carried silent pain so we could survive, was no longer alive.
Grief hit me like a wave.
I cried until my body shook, until my chest burned, until there were no tears left. The loss reopened wounds I had never allowed to heal. I felt alone in a way I had never known before.
He held me through it all.
For the first time since discovering my pregnancy, I forgot my fear. I forgot my plans. I forgot everything except the ache in my heart. In my weakness, I almost told him the truth. The words rested on my tongue.
But grief stole my strength.
Traveling home was impossible. Papers, money, time, everything worked against me. I mourned my mother from a distance, unable to touch her grave, unable to say goodbye properly. Guilt joined grief, sitting heavy in my chest.
Life did not pause for my pain.
Bills still needed to be paid. Classes continued. Work demanded my presence. And my pregnancy moved forward, silent but relentless.
When my body could no longer hide the truth, I finally spoke.
I remember his face when I told him. Shock first. Then fear. Then something softer, something deeper. He didn't shout. He didn't walk away. He simply sat down, running his hands through his hair, trying to understand how everything had changed so suddenly.
We were both scared.
But fear did not erase responsibility.
We decided to face it together.
There were no celebrations. No announcements. Just two people standing at the edge of adulthood, holding onto each other because letting go felt worse than trying.
I carried grief in my heart and life in my womb at the same time.
And I learned that sometimes, strength is not loud.
Sometimes, it is simply continuing to breathe when everything inside you wants to stop.