I wasn’t expecting that. “Rebecca?—”
She lifts her hand, indicating she’s not finished talking. “I’m telling you this because you need to understand something. You can have both. You’re allowed to have both. But only if you let people help you. Let me help you.”
The tears spill over now, and I swipe at them angrily. Relief is crashing through me in waves, mixing with gratitude and something that feels like—fuck me—I think it feels like hope. Rebecca isn’t firing me. She’s supporting me. She’s giving me exactly what I need, and I didn’t even know how to ask for it.
My hand finds my stomach again, protective and instinctive. The baby shifts beneath my palm, and I think about what Rebecca just said. That she chose her career overhaving kids. That it’s too late for her now. And here I am convinced I have to choose too.
But maybe I don’t. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I really can have both.
I wipe my face again. “I’m sorry. Hormones.”
“Don’t apologize for crying in my office. I’ve cried in here plenty.” She opens her laptop. “Now let’s figure out how we make this work.”
“Make it work?”
“You think I’m firing you? Natalie, you’re one of the best writers I’ve had in a room in years. I’m not letting you go because you’re having a baby.” She pulls up what looks like a production calendar. “Here’s what I’m thinking. We push production.”
“Push it?”
“Originally we were slated to start in April. But if we push to July, you can take maternity leave from April through June. Will that be enough? Can you come back in July?”
I stare at her. “You’d do that?”
“The network’s flexible on timing. And honestly, another few months of prep won’t hurt.” She makes a note on her screen. “The writers’ room will continue through March. We’ll have all the scripts locked before you go on leave. Then when you come back in July, you’ll be on set for production.”
“I don’t…I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll communicate with me from now on. If you’re tired, if you need a break, if you’re struggling—tell me. I can’t help you if I don’t know what you need.”
“I will. I promise.”
“Good.” Rebecca closes her laptop and gives me a verydirect look. “This job is hard. Pregnancy is hard. Doing both at once? Even harder. But I believe you can do it. I just need you to trust me enough to let me support you.”
The tears are coming faster now, and I can’t stop them. “Thank you. Really. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now go get yourself together and meet me in the writers’ room in twenty minutes. We have episodes to write.”
I stand, wiping my face. “Rebecca?”
“Yeah?”
“I really am sorry. For not telling you sooner.”
She nods. “I know. And for what it’s worth, I’m excited for you. You’re going to be a great mom.”
When the meeting ends, I practically run to the bathroom, lock myself in a stall, and let myself fall apart. Relief crashes over me in waves. I’m not fired. They’re supporting me. I get maternity leave.
When I can finally breathe again, I pull out my phone. My fingers hover over Jake’s name for just a second before I press call. The realization hits me square in the chest that he’s the first person I want to talk to.
He answers on the first ring. “How’d it go?”
His voice is low and warm and steady, and something in my chest cracks open. I close my eyes, picturing him at his desk, probably gripping his phone too tight, waiting to hear if I’m okay.
“I’m not fired.”
“I told you.” There’s relief in his voice, thick and real. “What did she say?”
“They’re pushing production to July. I’ll have maternity leave from April through June.”
