Made it to Boston. Hotel is nice. Miss you.
I stare at the message. Miss you. Like this is normal. Like we're a typical couple, and he's away on a normal business trip.
Like I'm not sitting here balanced on a hockey stick.
On one hand, I moved in here so I’d have help and support from my co-parent.
On the other hand, he’s in another state and not even around to learn the sex of our babies. I have it in an envelope on the table, waiting for when he gets back.
When will that be? I’ve lost track.
We aren’t together, not really, and all the sex and cohabitating is just blurring lines I need to sharpen instead. I have to get out before I disappear completely.
The problem is, I have nowhere to go.
No apartment lined up. No plan beyond "I can't do this anymore."
And even more persistent than the pain in my lower back is the dread of winding up just like my mother—a woman who can’t make it on her own, who needs to be rescued.
It’s a mindset at odds with what I hope to learn in school. If my grandmother hadn’t raised me, I could easily have been a woman with no options. I want to help create policies and design the social safety nets. And now I see just how impossible it feels to access them. And I have financial resources!
The cramping intensifies. I put my hand on my belly, feeling the tightness. I’m only five months and some change. Everyone needs to calm down and grow some more lungs.
"It's okay," I whisper to the babies. "We're okay."
But I don't feel okay.
I feel trapped. Suffocated. Like the walls of this beautiful apartment are closing in, and I can't breathe.
I need to get out. Need to find myself again before I'm lost completely.
But where would I go?
The question circles in my head, over and over, no answer appearing.
I try to go back to my reading. Maternal health disparities. Access to prenatal care. All the things I wanted to study, wanted to fix, wanted to dedicate my life to.
Before I became someone's baby mama. Before I moved into someone's apartment and started living off someone's resources.
Before I lost track of who Sloane Campbell was supposed to be.
Another cramp, stronger this time. I gasp, gripping the edge of the table.
Okay. That one hurt.
I stand up slowly, one hand on my belly. Maybe I should lie down. Rest. Drink some water.
The cramping eases slightly. See? Nothing.
I make it to the bedroom—my bedroom, Tucker's bedroom, I don't even know whose bedroom it is anymore—and lie down on top of the covers.
The babies kick. Strong, insistent movements that make my whole belly shift.
"I know," I say to them. "I know you're there."
I close my eyes and try to sleep.
I wake up to pain.
