Patricia smiles—a small, warm smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "That's a good start, Vanna. That's exactly the right attitude. But I want you to remember something, too. Taking care of the baby means taking care of yourself. You can't pour from an empty cup. If you run yourself into the ground trying to be the perfect pregnant woman in recovery, you're going to crash. And a crash is when relapses happen."
"So, what do I do?"
"You find balance. You push yourself, but you also rest. You fight the cravings, but you also ask for help when they get too strong. You focus on the baby, but you don't forget that you're a person too—a person who's been through hell and is still climbing out."
It sounds so simple when she says it.
Balance. Rest. Ask for help.
But I've never been good at any of those things.
I've always been all-or-nothing—either completely consumed by addiction or completely consumed by the desperate attempt to escape it.
Finding middle ground feels like learning a new language.
I put my hand on my stomach again, pressing gently against the place where my baby is growing.
It's too early to feel anything, too early to even see anything on an ultrasound.
But I know they're in there.
A tiny spark of life that Garrett and I created in the middle of the worst time of my life.
Maybe that means something.
Maybe this baby is a sign—a reason to keep fighting, even when the fight feels impossible.
A reason to stay clean, not just for myself or for Garrett, but for the little person who's counting on me to get this right.
Or maybe it's just one more thing I'm going to fuck up.
I guess I'll find out soon enough.
I call Garrett that evening, during my regular phone time.
The phone bank is in a quiet corner of the residential wing—three payphones mounted on the wall, with little privacy dividers between them.
Most evenings, there's a line, but tonight I'm lucky.
I get the first phone and dial Garrett's number with trembling fingers.
"Saturday," I tell him when he answers. "Visiting hours are from ten to four. Can you come?"
"I'll be there at nine-fifty-nine," he says without hesitation. "I'll bring Aunt Ellie too, if that's okay. She's been wanting to see you. She's been driving me crazy, actually—every time she comes by, she asks if there's been any update, if you're doing okay, if there's anything she can send."
Aunt Ellie.
The thought of her warm, solid presence makes something loosen in my chest.
She's always been more of a mother to me than my own mother ever was—at least, more than my mother was capable of being once the drugs took over. "That would be good. I'd like that."
"How are you feeling? Really? And don't give me the 'I'm fine' bullshit. I want the truth."
I consider lying.
Telling him I'm fine, that I've got everything under control.
But I'm so tired of lying.
