Tuesday morning—eleven days after I told Donovan I should never have told him about the baby—I'm sitting in a conference room at a tech startup in SoHo, pretending to give a damn about this job interview.
The office is one of those aggressively trendy spaces with exposed brick, a Foosball table, and a beer tap in the kitchen. The VP of Strategy—a woman named Claire who looks like she hasn't slept since 2019—is walking me through the role.
"We're looking for someone who can scale rapidly," she says. "Series B just closed. We're expanding into three new markets. It's going to be intense."
"Sounds challenging," I say, because that's what you're supposed to say in interviews.
"Do you have any concerns about the workload? Late nights, weekend work, that kind of thing?"
I glance down at my stomach.
At sixteen weeks, I'm definitely showing now. Not enough to be obvious under the loose blazer I'm wearing, but enough that it's impossible to hide when sitting.
"I'm pregnant," I say, because there's no point in lying. "Due in January. So yes, I have concerns about late nights and weekend work."
Claire's smile tightens almost imperceptibly. "Congratulations. That's... wonderful. We're very supportive of work-life balance here."
Which is corporate speak for "we're not going to hire you."
"Thank you for your time," I say, standing. "I'll let you know if I have any questions."
We both know I won't.
Outside, the late July heat hits me like a wall. I'm sweating before I make it to the subway, my loose linen dress sticking to my back, my feet swelling in the flats I wore because heels are impossible now.
My phone buzzes. Sasha.
SASHA: How'd it go?
ME: She saw I was pregnant and mentally filed my resume in the trash.
SASHA: Her loss. Next interview?
ME: Thursday. Another startup. They'll probably react the same way.
SASHA: Or you could stop interviewing and talk to Donovan
I don't respond.
Because talking to Donovan would require acknowledging that I miss him. That I've been cryingmyself to sleep every night for eleven days. That I said things I didn't mean because I was scared and hurt and convinced he was going to leave me anyway.
That he did exactly what I was afraid of—walked away.
ME: I have to go. Doctor's appointment at 2.
SASHA: Emma. You can't keep doing this.
ME: Doing what?
SASHA: Pretending you're fine. Interviewing for jobs you don't want. Avoiding the father of your child because you're too stubborn to admit you were wrong.
ME: I wasn't wrong. He was with his ex-fiancée
SASHA: He was at a business lunch she crashed. Youknow this. Carmen told you.
I read the last text, hands shaking as I type out a reply.
ME: Gotta go. Heading into the doctor’s. Love you.
