And his last words… those hurt. “You don’t care if I’m happy. You’re just scared, so you made me give up my best friend. I miss Gio, and you don’t even care that he’s gone!”
It had felt like being slapped. My own child, whose safety I’ve fought for every second of his life, accusing me of not caring. I knew he was lashing out.
I knew it came from his stubborn, loyal streak that—if I’m being perfectly honest with myself—reminds me entirely too much of Gio. But that didn’t make it easier to hear.
I’ve been pacing my room for over an hour, waiting for him to start yelling again or stomping around, anything to break the unnatural quiet coming from behind his door.
Instead, all I hear is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the occasional creak of the house settling.
My head is pounding. My emotions feel frayed, fragile—like the thinnest glass ready to shatter at the next tap. And it’s not just Jackson’s defiance that’s wearing me down. There’s something else. I don’t want to think about it, but it’s there.
I’ve been tired, a bone-deep kind of tired. My breasts ache in a way that feels too familiar, and my moods have been swinging like a wrecking ball. At first, I’d brushed it off as stress—until the nausea started two mornings ago.
And deep down, I already know why.
Still, knowing isn’t the same as seeing it confirmed. My chest is tight as I dig through the bathroom cabinet, fingers brushing past bottles of lotion, a crumpled tube of toothpaste, a half-empty pack of cotton pads—until they close around the slim cardboard box shoved in the back.
It’s a leftover from the last time I needed one.
From when I was still young, scared, and trying not to hyperventilate because I thought my life was about to change forever.
The doctors had already told me I was pregnant, but as soon as they released me, I needed to confirm it for myself. That test had told me about Jackson.
Now, this one might tell me about a second child—a second child of Gio’s.
My hands are trembling so badly that I almost drop the box into the sink. I force myself to breathe, to follow the instructions, to set the test down on the edge of the counter without looking at it again.
Three minutes.
It might as well be a century.
I can’t stand in the bathroom while I wait. It’s too small, too full of the faint tang of cleaning solution and the metallic scent of my own anxiety.
I step back into my bedroom, pacing like a caged animal. Every step sounds too loud in the quiet. My palms are slick with sweat.
The urge to look is overwhelming. I want to snatch it up right now, read the answer, and get it over with. But I force myself to wait.
Instead, I find my mind spinning in dangerous circles—flashes of Gio’s face, the way his voice softens when he talks to Jackson, the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing in the room.
I imagine telling him.
I imagine him holding me close, promising to protect this baby with the same fierce devotion he’s shown for my son.
And then I imagine the other possibilities. The ones where telling him puts us in even more danger.
Where this child is just another vulnerability for his enemies to exploit.
The timer on my phone goes off, sharp and sudden, making me flinch so hard I nearly drop it.
I walk back into the bathroom, every step heavier than the last. My breath feels trapped in my chest as I glance at the counter. Two little pink lines stare back at me.
I’m pregnant.
The world tilts. My hand flies to my mouth, stifling a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Tears prick at my eyes, blurring the result, but I don’t need to see it again. The truth is in my body already.
The counter edge is cold under my palms as I grip it to steady myself. My knees feel weak, my mind a rush of noise—fear, joy, confusion, longing.
My heart aches so fiercely it’s almost physical pain.
