The room goes quiet.
They all know my story by now.
They know about my mother dying in a trap house, about my father going to prison, about my accident, about the years I spent following in their footsteps.
"What did it say?" Patricia asks.
"He said he's proud of me." My voice cracks. "He said I'm breaking the cycle."
"How does that make you feel?"
I think about it.
Really think about it.
"Scared," I admit. "Because what if I'm not? What if I get out of here and I relapse and I prove him wrong?"
"That fear is normal," Patricia says. "It means you understand what's at stake."
"But it also makes me want to prove him right." I take a shaky breath. "My whole life, I've been trying to escape my parents' shadow. Trying not to end up like them. And for years, I failed. I became exactly what I was afraid of."
"And now?"
"Now I'm pregnant. Now I have a chance to do things differently." I put my hand on my stomach, feeling the flutter of movement that's become familiar over the past few weeks. "This baby doesn't know anything about my past. It doesn't know about the overdoses or the trap houses or the years I spent destroying myself. It's just... a blank slate. A chance to start over."
"That's a lot of pressure to put on a child," Patricia says gently.
"I know. I'm not trying to make the baby responsible for my sobriety. I just mean..." I struggle to find the words. "For the first time, I have something to lose that matters more than the high. For the first time, there's something I want more than I want to use."
The woman next to me—Sarah, mother of two, lost custody last year—reaches over and squeezes my hand.
"That's how it started for me too," she says quietly. "Wanting something more than the drugs. It's not enough on its own, but it's a start."
"It's a good start," Patricia agrees. "Hold onto that, Vanna. When the cravings come—and they will come—remember what you're fighting for."
I nod, pressing my hand harder against my stomach.
I'm fighting for this baby. For Garrett. For the family I never thought I'd have.
Christmas in rehab is strange.
The staff does their best to make it feel festive.
There's a tree in the common room, decorated with ornaments the residents made in art therapy.
Someone hung stockings from the fireplace mantel, each one labeled with a name.
Holiday music plays softly from speakers in the ceiling.
But it's still a rehab facility.
Still a place where people come to fight for their lives.
Garrett visits on Christmas morning, bringing Aunt Ellie with him again.
She's got a bag full of presents—warm socks, a fuzzy blanket, a journal with a leather cover, and a tiny onesie that says "Little Outlaw" on the front.
"Couldn't resist," she says, grinning. "Tildie picked it out. Said the baby needs to start repping the club early."
