The brick wall feels cold against the back of my head as I squeeze my eyes shut and lean against it.
How do I tell him?
How do I tell him the truth without tearing everything apart?
I can’t tell him about the night, aboutthem, about the way my world spun out of control in the span of a single evening and then continued until they had to leave.
He’d never look at me the same.
Hell, I would be surprised if hedidn’tdisown me.
So I tell him part of it. Enough to make him understand without giving him the truth that would destroy him. “It was…a hookup…a mistake. And now I’m…I’m pregnant.”
The pause that follows feels endless.
In reality, it’s probably only a few seconds—maybe even less—but it stretches until it feels like hours, days, centuries.
I can hear my own ragged breathing through the receiver, the wet hitch of my sobs cutting through static.
Somewhere behind me, a car horn blares, a sign of life continuing like the world isn’t crumbling around them like it is for me.
His voice softens immediately. “Oh, kiddo.”
It’s that same tone he used when I fell off my bike when I was eight, when he found me crying in the driveway with a skinned knee.
He soundssad, not disappointed. That almost hurts worse.
The words hit something deep in my chest. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
“I wish you’d told me sooner. Where are you?”
I swipe at my face, but the tears won’t stop. “At the clinic.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
He exhales, long and heavy. I can picture him now rubbing the back of his neck, pacing the kitchen, the worn floor creaking beneath his work boots.
I imagine the half-empty coffee mug still sitting on the counter, the newspaper folded next to it from when he brought it in from the stoop this morning.
All ordinary things that make the moment feel impossibly surreal.
“Come home,” he says, his voice steady. Firm in that way that’s always made me feel safe. No hesitation. No judgment. Just a command wrapped in love. “We’ll talk. We’ll figure it out. You don’t have to do this by yourself.”
“Okay,” I mumble.
“I love you. Drive safe. I’ll see you soon.”
The drive feels endless.
My hands won’t stop shaking long enough to turn them down. My fingers slip on the steering wheel, slick with sweat. My eyes sting from crying, every blink burning as headlights smear into ribbons of white and gold.
Every mile feels like a life sentence looming over me, each passing exit sign another chance to turn around, to run, to pretend that this isn’t real.
But I keep driving.
The city lights fade behind me, swallowed by the long stretch of highway that leads home.
