That word did something to me.
Because Micah didn’t seem like a man who tried at anything.
He seemed like a man who took. Who survived. Who endured.
Trying sounded like effort.
Trying sounded like care.
And care was dangerous.
Care was how you got attached.
Care was how you got hurt when someone left.
I took a breath. “Can I tell you something?”
His eyes stayed on mine. “Yeah.”
I hesitated—only for a second.
Then I said it.
“I’ve thought about pregnancy before.”
His brow furrowed slightly. “Because you want kids?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Maybe. Someday. But it’s not just that.”
He waited.
I could feel him holding himself still, like he didn’t want to spook me.
“I’m adopted,” I said softly.
His expression didn’t change. He already knew that part.
“But what people don’t talk about,” I continued, “is how adoption makes you think about … origin.”
Micah’s gaze sharpened. Focused.
“I don’t know anything about my biological mom,” I said. “Her name. Her face. Her health. Her history. I don’t even know if she wanted me and couldn’t keep me, or if she didn’t want me at all.”
Micah’s jaw flexed.
I lifted a hand, touching my own throat like I could steady myself through contact.
“My parents—my real parents, the ones who raised me—they gave me everything,” I said quickly, because I always felt theneed to defend them, even when no one was attacking. “They’re the best people I know. They adopted me, then four more kids. Five of us. Like it was normal. Like love was something you built a house around.”
Micah’s eyes softened a fraction.
“But there’s still a part of me,” I admitted, “that wonders what I came from. And what I carry.”
He didn’t interrupt.
“So, when I think about pregnancy,” I said, voice quieter now, “it’s not just about being a mom. It’s about … proof. Continuity. Knowing something about myself that I can’t find in any file or story.”
Micah’s hand moved, slow and deliberate, resting on my hip. Not possessive. Grounding.
