“I’m carrying Mark’s child,” I continued, gaining confidence from their stunned silence. “His blood runs through my veins now, and through the veins of the child I’m carrying. So you see, Mr. Miller, according to your own standards, I am family. Blood family.”

Mr. Miller opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came. His eyes, once frigid and unyielding, now flickered with something new—a mixture of uncertainty and dawning realization. He looked at Mrs. Miller, whose hands had flown to her mouth, her eyes wide with a mix of horror and wonder.

“But… why didn’t you tell us?” she finally managed to ask, her voice a broken whisper.

“I wanted to,” I replied, my own voice steady now, fueled by a deep-seated resolve. “Mark and I planned to announce it together. But then… everything happened so fast. I didn’t have the chance before he… before he died.”

David, looking like a man waking from a bad dream, bent down slowly to collect the scattered items from the floor. He glanced at me, his eyes softening, the hostility melting away. “Sarah, we didn’t know. We… we’re so sorry.”

There was a shift, a subtle but undeniable change in the atmosphere. The hostility that had permeated the house a moment ago was dissipating, replaced by a burgeoning awkwardness, a hesitant empathy. They had come expecting to sever ties, to evict a stranger, and now faced the reality that I was, undeniably and irrevocably, part of their family.

Mr. Miller cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the charged silence. He picked up the keys, his hands trembling slightly. “I… I didn’t know,” he admitted, his voice gruff but no longer hard. “Mark never told us. We thought… we thought you were alone.”

“I’m never alone,” I replied, placing a protective hand over my abdomen. “Not anymore.”

For a long moment, we stood in silence, the enormity of the situation settling over us like a blanket. Then, with a brusque nod, Mr. Miller turned to the locksmith. “Leave it as it is,” he said, his voice regaining some of its authority. “Sarah will stay.”

The locksmith nodded, gathering his tools and exiting quietly. Mrs. Miller approached me, her eyes filled with tears. “We should have asked, should have given you a chance to speak.”

I nodded, acknowledging the unspoken apology. “Let’s sit down,” I suggested softly, gesturing towards the living room. “There’s a lot we need to talk about.”

With tentative smiles, the Millers followed me into the room. As we settled into the chairs, I felt a flicker of hope amidst the grief—a belief that perhaps, from the ashes of loss, something new and precious might emerge.