I watch as a couple jogs past, then another, and another. The rhythm of their footsteps fades into the hum of the city, a heartbeat I’ve known my whole life.
There was a time, when I was little, when Mom would sit Stella and me down on this very bench. She’d tell us tobreathe it in, to just sit still andbe. I think she mostly wanted us to stop fighting, but it stuck with me, this idea that if you sit still long enough, the world will start to make sense again.
So, I come here. Whenever I miss her, I come here. Whenever I feel like I’m breaking apart, I come here. And now, when there’s a chance, I might be pregnant, a tiny minuscule might not even be happening but a chance none the less, I came here.
The wind is cooler than I expected. It lifts my hair, brushes against my skin, and for a moment I close my eyes and try to feel her here, her voice, her warmth, her calm. But none of it comes.
Matthew said all the right things. Every single one of them. But instead of feeling like support, it felt like a trap.
He may say he loves me and I believe that he does, but he doesn’tknowme.
Back in college, he didn’t know me either. He thought he did. A lot of people did. Because that’s what I wanted. It was easier to hand them the version of Brooke they could love, the bright, loud, resilient girl who bounced back from everything than the one who actually existed beneath all that noise.
I told Matthew things I’d never told anyone else. Secrets. Memories. Dreams. But I never told him thedarkparts.
I never told him that I blame myself for my mother’s death, that if I’d just kept my mouth shut, if I hadn’t convinced her to kick him out, cold turkey, maybe she’d still be alive.
I never told him that every time I take a drink, a small part of me panics because I’m terrified I won’t be able to put it down. That maybe the same addiction that hollowed my father out is somewhere inside me too, waiting.
I never told him how scared I am of becoming my parents. Of failing the way they did. Of breaking someone else the way they broke me.
And now… now there’s a chance there’s a life inside me, a life I might screw up before it even starts.
The thought makes my stomach twist. My throat goes dry. And all I can think is: What the fuck do I do?
I have options. This is New York, IknowI have options.
Termination. Adoption.
Not adoption. No.
If I’m going to put myself through the months of nausea and stretch marks and labour, if I’m going to let my body become a home, then you can be damn sure I’m not handing that life off to someone else. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.
But termination…
The word itself feels too clinical for the storm it stirs inside me. Cold. Detached. It makes it sound easy, like it’s just a decision you make and walk away from. But could I?
Could I really go through with that, knowing Matthew wants this?
Because he does, I saw it in his eyes when he touched my face, heard it in his voice when he saidwe can do this.And maybe that should make this choice clearer, but it doesn’t. It makes it harder.
It makes me wonder if I’d be doing it becauseIwant to, or because I’m scared of disappointing him.
I press the heels of my palms into my eyes until I see stars. There’s no guidebook for this. No right answer. Just a mess of guilt and fear and possibilities all tangled together.
And somewhere, under all of it, a tiny voice I can barely hear whispers:What if you could love this child?What if you could be a better parent than he was?
I take out my phone before I can second-guess it, scrolling to the one person who will never lie to me.
The line barely rings before she answers. “Hey, sweetie.”
“Hi, Stella,” I say, my voice quieter than I mean it to be. I hear traffic on the other end. “Where are you?”
“Driving home.”
“Stell…” I warn.
“I’m on speakerphone,” she says quickly, and I huff out a small laugh. Good, she’s already gotten two tickets for talking on the phone while driving.
