Two days after my husband died, his mother kicked me out with our newborn son. No sympathy. No pause. Just three cruel words: “You and your child mean nothing to me.” I left our apartment with only a suitcase, a diaper bag, and Caleb’s hoodie clutched to my chest like a lifeline. I didn’t know where I would sleep that night, but I knew one thing: we had nowhere left to turn. The hallway felt colder than the winter air outside. I could hear my own heartbeat, deafening, in my ears. My name is Mia. I’m 24 years…
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