The doctor nods approvingly. “Good. I don’t want complete bedrest, gentle walks are perfectly fine, even encouraged. And there are free prenatal classes at almost all community centres. It’s a great way to stay active and socialize with other moms.”
Brooke nods, still quiet, and I can feel her fingers tighten around mine. I give her hand a reassuring squeeze, trying to tell her without words that we’ll handle this,together.
The doctor offers us both a small smile before slipping the chart back into its holder. “I’ll have the discharge papers sent over. You two take care of each other.” With that, she leaves, the soft click of the door closing behind her.
Brooke exhales slowly, her shoulders slumping as the weight of it all presses down.
“We can’t afford for me to stop working,” she whispers, her voice barely above a breath. “Not with rent and the baby and everything else. We just… can’t.”
I turn toward her, cupping her cheek gently until her eyes meet mine. “I’ll take care of you,” I say, steady and certain. “Trust me.”
Chapter Eleven
Brooke
I get dressed slowly, wincing as I tug the shirt over my head. My body still feels heavy, not from the fall, not even from the hospital monitors or the hours of panic, but from everything that’s suddenly weighing on me.
Matthew’s down the hall, checking on the discharge paperwork, and for the first time since the doctor talked to us, I’m alone with my thoughts.
Our baby is okay.
I repeat it over and over in my head like a prayer. She’s okay. Strong heartbeat. Moving. Perfect. And I’m so, so fucking grateful, I don’t think I’ve ever been this grateful for anything in my entire life.
But underneath the relief, guilt creeps in, sticky and relentless.
Because all I can think about is how much money I just spent in one afternoon. How much deeper I probably dug us into a hole we were already struggling to climb out of.
I panicked. Of course I did. I don’t regret it for a second, I’d do it all over again and I’m sure insurance will coversomeof it… but not all.
And now I’m out of a job.
My benefits were garbage to begin with, and I doubt the airline’s going to keep me on payroll while I’m out of commission for the better part of a year. And even if they did, the maternity coverage barely scratches the surface.
I shake my head, angry at myself. I didn’t pay much attention to any of that when I was hired. I was too busy dreaming about international routes, picturing myself in Paris or Tokyo, not sitting here terrified about hospital bills and lost income.
Matthew told me he’d take care of it, he’ll take care ofmebut I don’t want that. I don’t want to put that kind of pressure on him. Not when the debt ismine.And I’m not even talking about the hospital bills. No, I mean the credit cards. The stupid, impulsive choices I made that still follow me every month. If I had been stupid enough to buy shit, I could resell them but no I chose experience, once in a lifetime experience that I can’t even resell. There’s still a significant balance left, a mountain I built swipe by swipe.
This mess… it’s mine. I made these choices. I swiped those cards.
And this, this is the part no one tells you about. The gut-wrenching, hollow feeling of beinguseless.
Yes, I’m bringing life into the world. Yes, I’m creating a miracle. But women have been doing that andworkingfor centuries.
God, Matthew’s mom worked until the day she went into labour. And here I am, not even five months along, sitting on the edge of a hospital bed and feeling like a failure. Like I’ve already fallen behind before the hardest part has even started.
There’s a soft knock on the door. I look up, expecting Matthew, but it’s not him.
It’s Chloe.
I start to push off the side of the bed, but she lifts a hand. “Sit,” she says gently. “Are you alright? Matthew called me.”
“He… called you?” I ask, surprised.
She nods, stepping into the room, her heels clicking softly against the floor. “He just wanted his mom.”
I nod slowly, my chest tightening at that. “Of course he did.” I press a palm to my stomach, rubbing small circles over the curve beneath my shirt. “Well… the baby’s okay. She’s safe.”
It’s true, I’ve felt her move since the fall. They’ve been the same flutters. Still there. Stillalive.
