I tap the notification. The delivery note popsup first.
Just a few things to make sure you’re taking care of yourself. Hope it makes your day a little easier. – Jake
I scroll down and see the list of healthy items and my throat tightens.
“What is it?” Mom asks, drying her hands.
“Jake sent groceries to my house,” I say, staring at the screen.
Her smile is small but knowing. “That’s sweet.”
“It’s ridiculous,” I say, but my voice comes out softer than I intend.
Because the truth is, it doesn’t feel ridiculous. It feels like relief. Like for the first time in longer than I can remember, someone noticed I needed something and just did it. No strings. No expectations. Just groceries and a quiet promise that I’m not doing this alone.
I’ve spent so long keeping people at arm’s length, building walls so high I can’t see over them anymore, that I forgot what this feels like. Someone caring. Someone showing up.
It’s terrifying how good it feels.
I lock my phone and set it face down on the table before that warmth in my chest can spread any further.
“It’s thoughtful,” Mom corrects, watching me with those all-seeing eyes that miss nothing.
“I should get home,” I say, standing.
She pulls me into a hug, arms wrapping all the way around me, and for a second I let myself lean in, really lean, like I did when I was little and she was the whole structure holding my world up.
“You’re going to be okay,” she murmurs into my hair. “I promise.”
“I hope so,” I say before I can stop myself.
She pulls back just enough to look at me. “Hope isn’t a bad thing, you know. Even if you think it is.”
The word lands like a stone in my chest. Hope.
People love that word. They wear it on bracelets. Tattoo it on their ribs in curly script. Throw it around in speeches and Instagram captions like it’s some kind of magic spell.
Keep hoping.
Have hope.
Hope for the best.
The hope I know has never been soft or pretty like that. The hope I know is what you cling to right before everything explodes and you’re left standing in the smoking crater wondering why you were stupid enough to believe this time would be different. Hope has only ever been the prequel to disappointment. The quiet drumbeat leading up to the fall.
Every time I’ve let myself want something out loud, every time I’ve let that fragile little spark light up in my chest, it’s ended in the same place. Devastation. Hope is not a lifeboat. It’s a trapdoor.
So no. I don’t want to feel it. Not about my career. Not about Jake. Not about a baby I did not plan for and am terrified to want.
eight
. . .
Jake
A forty-page licensingagreement is open on my screen and I’ve read the same sentence four times. I still couldn’t tell you what it says because my brain is not here.
My brain is in a tiny exam room watching Natalie’s face go white when the doctor said the word pregnant. My brain is replaying the feel of her hand under mine in the parking lot when she pressed her palm to her stomach. My brain is stuck on a loop thinking about one thing.
