The math checks out.
Five weeks ago, I was in that motel room, wrapped in Garrett's arms, desperate to feel something other than fear.
I remember the way he touched me that night—gentle and reverent, like I was something precious.
Like I was still worth loving after everything I'd put him through.
And now there's a baby.
Our baby.
"What about the drugs?" The question tears out of me, raw and terrified. "I was using until a couple of days before I arrived here. Heroin. Every day for years. What does that mean for the baby?"
Dana's expression softens with compassion. "That's something we'll need to monitor closely. Early drug exposure can cause complications, but it's not a death sentence. The fact that you've been clean for a month is a good sign. Your body ishealing, and that means the baby has a better chance of being healthy."
"But there could be problems." It's not a question.
"There could be," Dana admits. "We won't know for sure until you're further along. But I've seen plenty of healthy babies born to mothers who struggled with addiction in the beginning. It's not impossible."
Not impossible. That's the best she can offer me. Not impossible.
I put my hand on my stomach, pressing against the flat plane of my abdomen.
There's nothing to feel yet—no bump, no flutter, no sign that anything is different.
But something is different. Everything is different.
There's a life growing inside me. A tiny, fragile life that I've already endangered with years of poison and neglect.
"I need to call my husband," I say.
The phone feels heavy in my hand.
I'm standing in the hallway outside the clinic, my back against the wall, trying to work up the courage to dial.
It's not my scheduled call time—I'm only supposed to call Garrett once a day, in the evenings—but Dana pulled some strings for me.
A compassionate exception, she called it.
I don't feel compassionate.
I feel terrified.
How am I supposed to tell him this?
How am I supposed to say "I'm pregnant" when I don't even know what that means for us?
For the baby? For my recovery?
But I can't not tell him.
He deserves to know.
He's been waiting for me, fighting for me, believing in me when I couldn't believe in myself.
I owe him the truth.
I dial the number before I can talk myself out of it.
