Yes. Nose. Why did no one warn me that pregnancy can make your nose bigger? It’s like some twisted biological prank. My shoes don’t fit, my rings don’t fit, and now my face doesn’t either.
God, there are so many things I didn’t know and maybe that’s a good thing, because if Ihadknown, I might’ve marched into a doctor’s office at eighteen and asked for a hysterectomy.
I’m kidding.Kind of.
Because as much as I love this little human already, as much as I can’t wait to hold her, I’m also very, very sure this kid might be an only child.
I cannot,will not, do this again.
And it’s not just because of the biological stuff, though that’s enough on its own. It’s everything else, too. Everything no one thinks about.
Ever since I started showing, it’s like I stopped being a person and became an incubator. A vessel. People don’t even look atmeanymore, they look at my stomach. They talk to my bump. They ask abouther, never about me. And I wouldn’t even mind that part if there was still a piece ofmeleft somewhere under all of this.
But I lost so much on the way here. I lost my job, the one thing that made me feel like I was good at something, capable of something. I lost my independence. I even lost that crappy little room in that crappy little basement that, yeah, sucked in every possible way… but it wasmine.My space. My life.
Now it’s like I’m notmeanymore. Everything I do, every breath I take, every thought I have is about the baby. About being a mom. About what she needs, what I should eat, how I should sleep,whether I’m doing this right or if I’m already failing before she’s even here.
It’s like Brooke, the woman with a passport full of stamps, who chased flight schedules and impulse decisions, whoknewwho she was, got swallowed whole the second those two pink lines showed up.
I feel a sharp kick, right against the inside of my ribs, like sheknowsexactly where my thoughts are drifting.
“Don’t you worry, baby girl,” I murmur, rubbing the spot where her tiny foot just jabbed. “Mommy loves you. She’s just… having trouble loving herself right now.”
Another kick. This one a little stronger. It makes me laugh, despite myself.
“Alright, alright,” I chuckle. “Point taken.”
I plant one hand on the cushion beside me and start to push myself up, grunting a little as I shift my weight forward. But before I’m even fully upright, I feel it, a suddenpoplow in my abdomen, followed by a warm, unmistakable rush of fluid soaking through my leggings.
“Oh,” I breathe, eyes going wide. “Alright.”
I drop back down onto the sofa, heart hammering. It doesn’t hurt, no contractions, no pain, nothing, just a sudden, surreal wetness that tells me somethingbigjust changed.
For a second, I sit there frozen, blinking at the floor, before my brain finally catches up. My water broke. My waterbroke.
I fumble for my phone in the pocket of my coat, hands shaking as I scroll for a name and hit call.
“Hey, Brooke,” Sheera answers on the second ring, cheerful and casual.
“Hi, so, uh…” I take a breath. “I have a question.”
“Shoot.”
“What should I do if my water broke… but I don’t feel any contractions?”
There’s a pause. “You’resureit was your water?”
“Yeah,” I say quickly. “What else would it be?”
She’s quiet for a beat.
“I didnotpee myself,” I add, deadpan.
She bursts out laughing. “Youwillsoon enough.”
“Not helpful,” I grumble, which only makes her laugh harder.
“Okay, okay,” she says finally, catching her breath. “It’s fine. It happens more often than you’d think. Just head to the hospital.”
