I head up to the front door where my dad is standing in the doorway, coffee mug in hand, still in his Yale Law hoodie.
“Finally, some peace and quiet.” He grins, kissing my cheek. “Come in. I just made breakfast.”
I follow him into the kitchen, the familiar warmth of their home settling around me. It’s so different from how I grew up, but I love being part of this family, too.
“Tea?” Dad asks, already reaching for a mug.
“Just orange juice, actually.”
He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment, pouring me a glass instead. We settle at the kitchen island, and he leans against the counter with that calm lawyer energy that makes people confess things.
“So what’s new, kiddo? How’s the writing going?”
“Good. Really good. I’m meeting with the showrunner Rebecca next week to start talking about the writers’ room.”
“That’s exciting. When do you officially start?”
“December. Production starts in the spring.”
“And how are you feeling about all of it?”
“Terrified but excited.” I take a sip of juice, then set it down. “Actually, there’s something else I need to tell you.”
His expression shifts slightly, lawyer instincts kicking in. He sets his coffee down and gives me his full attention. “Okay.”
My pulse kicks up. I’ve been rehearsing this conversation in my head since I left my apartment, but now that I’m here, the words feel stuck somewhere between my chest and my throat.
“You know how I wasn’t feeling well at your office the other day?”
“Yeah.” His voice is careful now, measured. “You said everything was fine.”
“It is. Sort of.” I take a breath. My hands are shaking, so I press them flat against the cool granite countertop. “When we were at the clinic, they ran some tests. Blood work and everything.”
He’s completely still now, eyes locked on mine. Waiting.
“And they found something.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
The air between us feels heavy. I can see him running through possibilities in his head, worst-case scenarios, his jaw tightening slightly.
I force the words out before I lose my nerve or give him a heart attack.
“I’m pregnant, Dad. About twelve weeks.”
The words settle between us. My dad goes very still, his face cycling through surprise and concern before landing on something softer. “Pregnant,” he repeats quietly.
“Yeah.”
“As in, I’m going to be a grandpa?” His eyes light up as realization hits.
“Exactly that.”
He is quiet for a moment, taking in this information. Then he asks, “How are you feeling about it?”
I relax at his genuine concern for me.
“Honestly? I’m still processing. It’s a lot.”
“I imagine so.” He runs his hand through his hair. “Does the fatherknow?”
