“Just tired,” I answer quickly. “It’s been a long week.”
She eyes me with her signature stare, so annoyingly perceptive it feels like she can see through the cracks I try to cover up. I try to smile, but the swirl in my stomach sharpens, and I look away, focusing on the chalkboard menu instead of the coffee aroma tightening my throat.
She launches into a story about another horrible dating app experience, complete with dramatic reenactments and the kind of commentary that usually sends me into a fit of giggles. Today I smile, but it feels thin, stretched too tight around the edges. She notices immediately.
“You’re not listening to me,” she accuses, though there’s no anger in her tone. “What’s going on with you?”
“I’m fine,” I insist, even though we both know that’s a lie.
She narrows her eyes. “You know I don’t like it when you lie to me.”
I let out a breath and pick at the seam of my sleeve.
“Sorry,” I tell her. “You’re right. I’m exhausted, and I think I must be getting a stomach bug.”
She opens her mouth to answer, but just then the door chimes and the smell of fresh espresso fills the café again. My stomach lurches violently. I stand so fast my chair screeches across the floor.
“I need to go,” I say abruptly.
Kelly stands too, reaching for me. “Do you want me to drive you home?”
“No,” I protest, thinking about how much I don’t want to vomit in her car. “I think the walk will be good for me. I’ll text you later.”
I don’t wait for her to respond because I’m already heading for the exit, trying to breathe through the nausea threatening to spill over in public. Outside, the cold January air hits me, and the shock of it helps a little, but the twisting sensation deep in my core doesn’t ease. I walk down the sidewalk, drawing in slow breaths and trying to calm myself. It’s probably nothing. Stress or any number of nasty germs the kids pass around.
The pharmacy is on my way home, and I decide to stop in and get some medicine. I head toward the back, but on my way, I pass an aisle that I don’t normally go down. As my eyes land on a pink box, a wave of panic washes over me, rising on top of the nausea.
I stand there, staring at the shelf. My hands tremble slightly as I reach for the box, then grab another brand just to be safe. I pay at the self-checkout so I don’t have to look anyone in the eye as I make my purchase.
When I finally reach my apartment, I lock myself in my bathroom even though I’m the only one here. I take the test out of the box, my hands shaking so badly I almost drop it. I tell myself again that I’m just doing this for peace of mind. There’s no way I could be pregnant.
Except that I’m late. I’ve been feeling more tired than usual. The smell of coffee alone almost made me lose it. I swallow hard as I try again not to vomit.
The instructions blur. My vision swims. I sit on the edge of the tub and wait. It feels like the longest minute of my life. When the results appear, my breath leaves my lungs in one silent rush.
It’s positive.
I’m pregnant. I stare at the tiny window until the lines blur and my eyes sting.
I always wanted a family. A real family. Something that belonged to me. Something no one could take away. I wanted to break the cycle of my childhood, to build something good out of everything that hurt me.
But this isn’t how I imagined itat all.
I always pictured it years from now, when I had stability and a home with a yard and maybe someone who loved me. Not now. Not alone. Not with a man I barely know. A man who brutally murdered another man as if it was nothing. A man who gave me the best orgasms of my life and never called me again.
It’s all wrong, and not remotely the kind of life I’d hoped to give a child.
And yet, underneath the fear and the nausea, something else starts to bubble up in my chest. It’s a fragile and overwhelming joy.
I’m going to have a baby. Someone who’s all mine. Someone who belongs to me. Someone I can love without fear of being discarded. Someone who’s half me. I’ll have a real family, even if it isn’t the way I pictured it.
The tears start falling down my cheeks before I even realize I’m crying.
I slide down to the floor, pressing the test to my chest, and let myself sob, not out of fear or regret but out of sheer, fierce relief that there will finally be someone in this world who is mine. My tiny, unexpected miracle.
Monday morning comes too quickly. I hardly sleep Sunday night, lying awake with my hands resting over my stomach even though nothing has changed outwardly. I keep thinking about the life inside me. The tiny heartbeat that will grow. The future I hadn’t expected. The strange sense of hope unfurling like a warm ribbon in my chest.
I go to work, still pretending everything is normal, even though my life is now so much more incredible than I could have imagined. I probably could have called out sick to give myself more time to process the news, but my kids need me. Because no matter what’s happening in my body or my life, my students come first.
