Late August has a way of making even the calmest neighborhoods feel heavy. The air that evening was thick and unmoving, the kind that clings to your skin and makes every sound feel louder. Cicadas buzzed relentlessly, filling the silence between houses with their constant hum, as if the night itself couldn’t rest.

I was finishing up in the kitchen, wiping down the counters after dinner, when something cut through the noise.

Crying.

Not the soft kind you hear through walls or the occasional sniffle people try to hide. This was raw. Broken. The kind of sobbing that comes from deep inside someone, when holding it together is no longer an option.

At first, I thought it might be coming from a television or someone talking loudly on the phone. But then I realized it was coming from outside—right near our front door.

I set the cloth down and walked to the window.

Standing on her porch was Sarah, our neighbor from next door. She was heavily pregnant, nearly full term, her belly round and prominent beneath a loose summer dress. One hand was pressed beneath it, the other gripping the railing as if she needed something solid to keep herself upright. Tears streamed freely down her face, her shoulders shaking as she cried openly into the night.

She looked like someone who had reached the very end of her strength.