The wind howled through the cemetery, but I barely felt it. My son, David, was gone.

As the service ended, a young woman approached me. Her hands rested over her stomach. “I was with David,” she whispered. “I’m pregnant with his child.”

A spark of hope ignited within me. I embraced her. “You’re not alone.”

Jennifer became a part of my life. I took her to doctor’s appointments, filled the nursery with tiny clothes, and held onto the belief that a part of David lived on. But my husband, Mark, was wary.

One evening, he placed an envelope on the table. Inside were photos—Jennifer with another man, her belly already rounded before David’s accident.

My heart shattered. “Tell me the truth,” I demanded.

Tears welled in Jennifer’s eyes. “I wanted you to love me, to not be alone.”

Anger burned, but so did understanding. She was lost, just like me.

Then Mark spoke. “We wanted a grandchild. What if we became parents instead?”

Jennifer’s breath hitched. “You’d raise my baby?”

Months later, she placed the newborn in my arms, sobbing. His tiny fingers curled around mine, and love filled me.

Mark whispered, “He’s ours now.”

I kissed the baby’s forehead. “Not by blood, but by fate.”