I looked past him toward the water.

At the slides.

At the families and little kids and women of every size walking around in swimsuits without apologizing for taking up space.

Six weeks of hiding had made my world very small, and I was tired of disappearing before anyone else had the chance to make me.

“Yes,” I said.

He had rented one cabana under my name.

Not the entire section.

Just one shaded space with two loungers, a table, and enough quiet to breathe.

We spent the afternoon there.

Not performing.

Not celebrating.

Just existing.

Jenna and the other women sat with us for a while. Later, when I checked my phone, their names had disappeared from the bridal party group chat one by one.

Marcus bought me lemonade I barely touched.

I put my feet in the water.

I let the sun warm my shoulders.

I did not feel healed. I did not feel beautiful. But I felt visible, and that was more than I had felt in weeks.

On the drive home, Marcus kept one hand on the wheel and the other wrapped around mine.

After a while, I said, “Are you okay?”

He took a moment before answering.

“No,” he said. “But I have you.”

I turned toward him.

He kept his eyes on the road.

“I think I kept telling myself Brianna would grow up if I loved her enough,” he said. “I know now that’s not true.”

I squeezed his hand.

He squeezed back.

Then he glanced over at me for one second and said, “I’m done asking you to make yourself smaller so other people can stay comfortable.”

That was when I cried.

In the car, on the way home, with my husband’s hand in mine and my black swimsuit still damp in the shopping bag at my feet.

Because for the first time since the miscarriage, I began to feel like myself again.