The architecture of a secret is often built not from deliberate lies, but from the quiet, dusty bricks of omission. I never imagined that a casual afternoon spent in a sun-drenched pottery studio would become the moment the foundation of my life began to tremble. I had gone there seeking a brief reprieve from the physical and emotional weight of my second pregnancy. My belly was heavy, my ankles were swollen, and the simple act of painting a ceramic mug felt like a manageable way to bond with a group of local mothers. The air in the studio was thick…