That’s how it started for Mom.
Before it spread to her bones. Before the endless pills and the nausea, the headaches, and the quiet, violent way cancer stole her.
My breath catches, and before I can stop it, tears are sliding down my cheeks.
“Is it breast cancer?” I ask, barely able to get the words out.
Karen offers a soft smile and tilts her head. “No, Rhea. I don’t think that’s it.”
I hold my breath.
“I want to run some lab work to be sure,” she says, “but based on what you’ve shared—and your symptoms—I think everything is pointing in the same direction.”
“Rhea, when was your last period?”
I stare at her blankly. Swallow hard.
She meets my gaze.
“I think you’re pregnant.”
Everything goes still. For a full second, the world is silent. Then it starts to tilt. Spin.
“Pregnant?” I breathe. “That’s not—I mean, that’s impossible. I’m not even…”
And then it hits me.
Like a tidal wave crashing over everything I’ve built.
Spencer Devereaux.
The only man I’ve been with anytime in the not-too-distant past. The only man I’ve even kissed in years.
Oh. My. God.
My hands start to tremble. The shaking moves up my arms, through my spine. Karen is saying something about labs, timing, confirming the pregnancy—but I’m not hearing it.
She gently lays a hand on my knee.
“I can see this wasn’t what you expected coming in. But you have options. You can take time to process. Maybe come back—bring a friend, or the father, once we have the results.”
“I can’t come back,” I whisper. “I’m leaving for France.”
“Today’s Tuesday,” she says. “Let’s get you to the lab first thing tomorrow. I’ll fit you in again Thursday morning.”
I nod.
Pregnant.
Pregnant?
A baby?
This wasn’t the plan. This can’t be the plan.
I stop at the drugstore on the way home. I don’t need to. But I do anyway. I buy a test and go straight to the bathroom the moment I walk in the door.
And when the result appears, clear as day, I slide to the floor.
