“Yeah,” I say. “That sounds amazing, actually. Thanks, Mom.”
She slides fluffy scrambled eggs onto a plate, adds two slices of toast, some bacon, then tosses a handful of berries on the side like she is plating something for a food blog. She sets it in front of me, pours a glass of orange juice, then tops off her own mug with coffee before sitting down across from me.
I pick up my fork, but before I take a bite, I look across the table at her. At the woman who raised me alone, who juggled law school and a toddler, who never once made me feel like I was a burden.
Last night, when I showed up on her doorstep, I thought she might panic. Or worse, be disappointed. Instead, she made tea, sat me down on the couch, and listened to the whole messy story without interrupting once.
When I finally stopped talking, throat raw from crying, she’d just pulled me into her arms and said, “Okay. We’ll figure it out.”
Not “We’ll fix it.” Not “What were you thinking?” Just “We’ll figure it out.” Like it was that simple. Like I wasn’t about to derail my entire life. She’s been steady ever since. Practical. I don’t know what I’d do without her.
“Eat,” she says simply, pulling me back to the present.
The first bite hits my tongue and my brain lights up. Salt and butter and actual flavor. My body, apparently, has decided it’s done with the hunger strike.
Mom wraps her hands around her mug, watching me with that lawyer face she uses in court softened by pure mom-ness. “So,” she says after a minute, voice gentle. “Have you thought at all about next steps?”
“You mean besides having a dramatic meltdown?” I ask around a bite of toast.
“Yes,” she says, lips twitching, “besides that.”
I put my fork down, push my plate back an inch, and stare at the condensation on my glass of orange juice. “I don’t know, Mom,” I say. “I just signed the biggest deal of my life. What if FlixPix decides I’m too much trouble? What if they replace me?”
“That’s not going to happen,” she says, no hesitation.
I look up. “How do you know that?”
“Natalie.” She reaches across the table and lays her hand over mine. “Stop catastrophizing. Your career is going to be fine. You’re talented, you’re smart, and you have people in your corner who will fight for you if they have to. Being pregnant doesn’t erase your talent.”
“It feels like it might,” I say, voice small.
“I know it feels that way,” she says. “Because everything is fresh and loud and your brain is trying to protect you by preparing you for every possible disaster. But trust me.” She squeezes my hand. “You can have a child and a career.”
I study her face, the fine lines at the corners of her eyes that weren’t there when I was in high school, the strength in her jaw, the way her presence has always seemed slightly too big for whatever room she’s in.
“What made you believe you could do it?” I ask. “Back then. When it was just you and me. What made you think,Yeah, I can be a mom and a lawyer and not explode?”
Her thumb moves in slow circles on the back of my hand. “I didn’t believe it at first,” she says softly. “I was terrified. I thought I’d ruined my life, honestly. I thought I’d ruined his life, too. He had this big, shiny future mapped out, and I was young and pregnant and very certain I wasgoing to derail everything if I told him. So I didn’t. And that’s something I’ll always regret.”
Pain flickers across her face for a second, there and gone. “But I believed I could do it because I wasn’t alone. My parents helped with you. They encouraged me to go back to school when I was ready. I had friends who showed up with hand-me-down baby clothes and frozen meals and zero judgment. I had professors who let me bring you to class when childcare fell through. I had a village.” She looks at me, eyes steady. “And so do you.”
“Was it hard without him?” I ask. “Without Dad?”
“Yes,” she says honestly. “And no. There were moments I wanted to tell him about something you did and I couldn’t. There were nights I wanted to hand you to someone else and go stand outside and just breathe. And sometimes I wished I hadn’t made that choice for him. Or for you.”
She pauses, and I can see her deliberating over every word. “But I made that decision,” she says. “I didn’t give him the chance to step up. Your situation is different. Jake already knows and from what you told me last night, he wants to be involved.”
I pull my hand back and wrap both arms around myself, palms pressing into my biceps like I can hold all the pieces of me in place. “What if I don’t want him to be?” I say.
Mom tilts her head. She doesn’t pounce on it. She just sits with it for a second. “Why wouldn’t you want him to be?” she asks quietly.
“I don’t know,” I say, not entirely honestly. “I don’t know what I want.”
“Okay,” she says. She leans back, gives me a little morespace. “Then don’t pretend you do. Don’t force yourself into some decision today because you think you should. But don’t make this choice from fear either.”
I stare at the little pile of scrambled eggs on my plate, now cooling. “I told him I don’t do relationships,” I say. “I told him it was one night. No strings. No complications.”
“You need to talk to Jake,” she says, voice firm but kind. “Not to make a forever decision today. Just talk. Figure out where he stands, what he’s thinking, what he wants his role to be. You don’t have to know all your answers yet but you can’t make plans for the future by avoiding the person who’s already part of it.”
