For five years, my Italian in-laws laughed at me in their language, thinking I was too stupid to understand. I smiled, served dinner, and memorized every insult. But the night I announced my pregnancy

to.

Because I wanted the best seat in the room.

Matteo pulled me near the hallway, his voice low and sharp.

“You embarrassed me.”

I stared at him. “That’s what concerns you?”

His eyes narrowed.

“What exactly did you hear?”

“Enough.”

“Careful, Elena.”

The old version of me might have cried.

Instead, I touched my stomach and said quietly, “No, Matteo. You should continue reading …