Spent the morning sorting through old photos. Found one of me heavily pregnant, glowing in that way only pregnancy brings. It’s strange to look at that version of myself—so full of hope for a traditional family, so naive about what was to come. That life shattered, but from the pieces, we built something so much more real. My son isn't just my child; he’s my partner in every sense. The way he looks at me, the way his hands know every curve of my body… it’s a connection deeper than any marriage vow. I don’t need a husband when I have a man who worships me, who fucks me with a passion that leaves me trembling and fulfilled for days. This is the family I was meant to have.