And, well, calling it a “nursery" at all is generous.
It's the corner of my studio apartment that I've sectioned off with a folding screen I found on Facebook Marketplace.
But it's mine.
And I'm painting it gender-neutral yellow because I still haven't decided if I want to know the sex, andyellow feels hopeful in a way I desperately need right now.
The August heat is oppressive even with my one window AC unit wheezing at maximum capacity. I'm wearing an old t-shirt that no longer fits over my growing belly—seventeen weeks now, officially in the second trimester, officially showing enough that strangers on the subway offer me seats.
I dip my brush in the paint and carefully edge around the window frame.
My phone rings. I ignore it.
It rings again.
"For fuck's sake," I mutter, setting down the brush and wiping my hands on a rag.
The caller ID says Margaret Hill—Donovan's assistant.
My stomach drops.
I almost don't answer. But Margaret's never called me before, and if something's wrong…
If Donovan's hurt or—
"Hello?"
"Emma." Margaret's voice is warm, professional. "I'm sorry to bother you on a Saturday."
"Is everything okay? Is Donovan—"
"He's fine. But I need you to come in and sign some paperwork. HR documents related to your departure from Titan."
Right. My departure.
The new job I accepted yesterday at a smaller consulting firm that doesn't care that I'm pregnant. The pays less and offers fewer opportunities but at least doesn't come with a boss I'm in love with.
"Can't it wait until Monday?"
"Unfortunately, no. There are some time-sensitive clauses in your benefits package that need to be finalized before the weekend ends." She pauses. "I'm sending a car for you. It'll be there in twenty minutes."
"Margaret, I'm covered in paint—"
"Bring the paint. We'll work around it."
Before I can argue, she hangs up.
I stare at my phone, at the yellow paint under my fingernails, at the half-finished nursery corner that was supposed to be my Saturday accomplishment.
"Fine," I mutter to no one. "Let's get this over with."
I change into maternity jeans and a clean shirt, tie my paint-splattered hair back in a bun, and wait for the car that's apparently coming to drag me to Titan on a Saturday to sign my life away.
Except when the car arrives—a sleek black sedan that's definitely nicer than any Uber I've ever taken—the driver doesn't head toward Titan's offices in Midtown.
He heads uptown. Toward Central Park.
"Excuse me," I say, leaning forward. "I think you have the wrong address. I'm supposed to go to Titan Industries—"
