"If you're comfortable with it," he says, his eyes searching mine. "I thought it might be nice to start thinking about practical things. But we don't have to."
"Oh my gosh! I’d love that," I say, a flutter of excitement rushes through my body. "I haven't bought anything yet. It felt... I don't know, like tempting fate."
"We don’t have to buy anything. But it will be fun to look."
The store smells of lavender, with soft classical music playing. Tristan stays close as I wander through displays of tiny socks and hats, my fingers trailing over impossibly small sleepers.
"Oh," I breathe, stopping in front of a display of plush animals. Among them sits a small grey elephant with floppy ears and kind eyes. Something about it—the gentle expression, the soft-looking fabric—catches my heart. I pick it up, running my thumb over its stitched trunk.
"Do you like that one?" Tristan asks, watching my face.
I nod, suddenly fighting tears. "It's silly, but it just feels... right." I look up at him, blinking rapidly. "This is really happening, isn't it? In a few months, there's going to be a baby. My baby."
"Our baby," he says quietly, then catches himself. "I mean?—"
"No," I interrupt, reaching for his hand. "I like that. Our baby. You and Julian and..." I hesitate before adding, "and Alexander too, if he's serious about being involved."
Tristan's smile is small but genuine. "Our baby," he repeats. "I can't wait to meet them."
The moment is so perfect I want to freeze it—Tristan's smile, the little elephant clutched in my fingers, the future stretchingout before us full of possibility. And then a sharp voice shatters it all.
"Camille Marie Montclair! What on earth do you think you're doing?"
I whirl around to find my mother standing nearby, her expression a mixture of shock and disapproval as her eyes fix on my slightly rounded middle.
"Mom," I gasp, instinctively stepping closer to Tristan. "What are you doing here?"
"I was meeting Elaine for lunch across the street when I saw you walk in here," she says, advancing toward us with narrowed eyes. "Is there something you need to tell me and your father? Because it certainly looks like you're pregnant."
Her voice carries through the quiet store, drawing curious glances from other shoppers. Tristan stands close by, a silent show of support.
"I’m pregnant," I confirm, lifting my chin despite the anxious feeling in my stomach. “Eighteen weeks."
“Eighteen—” She breaks off, her face flushing with anger. "And when exactly were you planning to tell us? After the baby was born? Or were we just supposed to figure it out on our own?"
"I was going to call you," I say, the lie slipping out before I can stop it. The truth is, I'd been avoiding it, dreading exactly this reaction.
"Don't insult me," she snaps. Her gaze shifts to Tristan, looking him up and down with barely concealed disdain. "And who is this? The father?"
"This is Tristan Vale," I say, deliberately avoiding the question. "My partner."
"Partner," she repeats, her mouth twisting around the word. "I suppose that's what they call it these days when you're not married. Your father will be heartbroken. Such a disgrace to the family name."
The familiar criticism—disgrace, disappointment, not living up to expectations—hits its target with practiced precision. But today, with Tristan beside me and the little elephant still in my hand, I find I don't have the patience for it.
"We're leaving," I say, grabbing Tristan's hand. "Give me a call when you're ready to be supportive."
I don't wait for her response, just turn and pull Tristan toward the register. We pay for the elephant in tense silence, my mother's judgmental stare boring into my back the entire time. As we exit the store, I catch a glimpse of her standing exactly where we left her, mouth still hanging open in shocked outrage.
The ride back to my apartment is quiet, both of us still processing my mother's ambush at the baby store. Tristan keeps one hand on the steering wheel, the other holding mine across the center console.
The plush elephant sits in my lap, its sewn-on smile a stark contrast to the turmoil I feel about the confrontation. My mother's disapproving face keeps flashing in my mind, but I push it away, focusing instead on the warmth of Tristan's hand in mine and the memory of those three words he said at lunch: I love you.
"How are you doing?" Tristan asks as we pull up in front of my building, his voice breaking the comfortable silence.
I nod, offering him a small smile. "Better than I would have been facing her alone. Thank you for being there."
"Always," he says simply, and I believe him.
