Three months passed.
Emily, now visibly pregnant, dropped out of school and moved to a tiny studio on the edge of Fresno. She worked double shifts, scraping by. Her world had shrunk to long nights and aching feet.
Then came the phone call.
It was her co-worker, Mary, who had also grown up in Arkansas.
“Emily,” she said, her voice shaking, “I just saw photos on Facebook. Jason… he got married last weekend. To someone from back home. His parents arranged it.”
Emily didn’t cry. She sat on a park bench for hours, staring into nothingness. The pain was a hollow echo inside her chest.
