My father-in-law slapped me at my baby shower and called me “defective.” He had no idea I was 11 weeks pregnant. The room fell silent. Phones started recording. Hours later, I was in the ER. By morning, my husband had to choose—his father or his child.
My best friend Megan insisted on celebrating that choice. She hosted the shower at her bright townhouse just outside Columbus, determined to honor our approval into the adoption program. For the first time in years, I allowed myself to feel something close to hope.
The room glowed with soft pastel colors. Yellow balloons continue reading …
