"I love you too." I whisper. "I'll call you soon."
I hang up and slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the floor, my knees pulled up to my chest.
The hallway is empty—everyone else is in group therapy or individual sessions—and I let myself fall apart in the silence.
Pregnant.
I'm pregnant.
And somewhere in Morgantown, Garrett is probably falling apart too.
Patricia finds me an hour later, still sitting in the hallway.
She doesn't ask what's wrong—Dana must have told her already.
She just settles down on the floor next to me, her back against the wall, and waits.
"I don't know how to do this," I finally say. "I don't know how to be a mother. I can barely figure out how to be a person."
"Nobody knows how to be a mother before they become one," Patricia says. "It's not something you learn from a book. It's something you figure out as you go."
"But what if I fuck it up? What if I relapse? What if I'm holding my baby and all I can think about is finding a needle?"
"Those are valid fears." Patricia's voice is calm, non-judgmental. "Recovery is hard enough on its own. Adding pregnancy to the mix makes it even harder. But it's not impossible."
That word again. Not impossible. Like it's supposed to be comforting.
"I want to see my husband," I say. "I need to see him."
"We can arrange that. Visiting hours are on Saturdays and Sundays. You're past the initial phase, so you're eligible for visits now."
"This Saturday?" It's Wednesday. Three days away.
"If he can make it, yes."
Three days. I can survive three days.
I've survived worse.
"There's something else we need to talk about," Patricia says, her voice gentle. "Your treatment plan may need to change now that you're pregnant. Some of the medications we've been using aren't recommended during pregnancy. We'll need to work with the medical team to adjust your protocol."
The words send a spike of fear through my chest. "What does that mean? Am I going to feel worse?"
"Not necessarily. There are pregnancy-safe alternatives for most of what you're taking. But it's a process, and we'll need to monitor you closely to make sure the transition goes smoothly." Patricia pauses, choosing her next words carefully. "There's also the question of cravings. Some women find that pregnancy intensifies their urge to use. The hormonal changes, the stress, the fear—it can all pile up and make the addiction voice louder."
"Great," I mutter. "Because I neededanotherthing to worry about."
"I'm not telling you this to scare you. I'm telling you because knowledge is power. If you know what to expect, you can preparefor it. You can reach out when the cravings get bad instead of trying to white-knuckle through them alone."
I nod, even though the words barely register.
All I can think about is Saturday.
Three days until I can see Garrett.
Three days until I can feel his arms around me and believe, even just for a moment, that everything is going to be okay.
"I want to do whatever's best for the baby," I say. "Whatever it takes. If that means changing medications, doing extra therapy sessions, whatever—I'll do it."
