I type back with shaking hands.
Natalie
I will.
I force myself into the shower, letting the hot water beat against my shoulders, trying to wash away the exhaustion that’s settled into my bones. The baby’s been kicking constantly, like she knows I’m stressed. Like she’s reminding me she’s here, that this is real, that there’s no going back now.
I press my hand to my stomach, feeling a flutter of movement beneath my palm. “We’ve got this,” I whisper, though I’m not sure which one of us I’m trying to convince.
Getting dressed takes longer than it should. Every outfit feels wrong. Too tight across my belly, too obviously maternity, too much evidence of what I’ve been hiding. I finally settle on black leggings and an oversized sweater, the same uniform I’ve been wearing for weeks.
I’m sitting in my car outside the FlixPix offices, gripping my steering wheel and trying to remember how to breathe. I force myself out of the car and into the building. The elevator ride to the third floor feels like it takes a year. When I step out, the assistant at the desk gives me a sympathetic look.
“She’s waiting for you in her office.”
Great.
I walk down the hallway on shaky legs, past the writers’ room where I’ve spent the last month proving myself, pastthe offices of other producers and executives, and straight to Rebecca’s door at the end.
I stop outside, pressing my hand to my stomach. The baby kicks, a solid thump against my palm, and something in my chest loosens just a fraction. I knock.
“Come in.”
Rebecca’s sitting behind her desk, looking polished and professional as always. She gestures to the chair across from her.
“Close the door and sit down.”
I sit, my heart hammering so hard I’m sure she can hear it. She studies me for a long moment, and I can’t read her expression at all.
“How far along are you?” she asks finally.
“Six months. I’m due at the end of March.”
Rebecca nods slowly. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
I take a breath. “I wanted to prove I could do the work first. That I deserved to be here. I didn’t want you to think I was a liability or that I’d be distracted or?—”
“That’s not your call to make,” Rebecca interrupts.
The words hit like a slap.
“I’m sorry, I just?—”
“Do you know what makes a good writers’ room work?” She leans forward. “Trust. Teamwork. Communication. You keeping this from me undermines all three.”
Tears are already burning behind my eyes, but I force them back. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“You should have told me. Not because I needed to plan around you, but because you deserved support, or possiblyaccommodations.” She pauses. “Instead, you’ve been hiding in oversized sweaters and lying about why you won’t eat sushi.”
“I wasn’t lying, I just?—”
“Natalie.” Rebecca’s voice softens slightly. “I get it. I do. This industry is brutal to women. Especially women who want families. But you made a choice that affected more than just you.”
I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
Rebecca sits back in her chair, and something shifts in her expression. Less anger, more weariness.
“I didn’t have kids,” she says quietly. “I chose this career instead. Every time I thought about starting a family, there was another show, another project, another opportunity I couldn’t pass up. And now I’m forty-three and it’s too late.”
