The indecision sits in my chest like a lead balloon. I need help. I can't accept help. I need Grant. I can't tell Grant. I want this baby. I'm terrified of this baby.
I don't know which way is up anymore.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out.
Poppy:How are you feeling today?
Poppy:Did you get any sleep?
Poppy:I'm worried about you.
I stare at the messages, trying to figure out how to answer. How am I feeling? Terrified. Overwhelmed. Like I'm watching my entire future crumble in real-time.
Me:I'm working to take my mind off of it.
Poppy:And how's that going?
I look at the sink full of failed formulas, at my hands that won't stop shaking, at the business plan on the wall with its now-impossible timeline.
Me:Not great.
Poppy:Do you want me to come over?
I do. I desperately do. But Poppy can't fix this. Her presence, her support, her unwavering belief in me—none of it changes the fundamental problem.
I'm pregnant, and I don't know how to be pregnant and still be me.
Me:I'm okay. Just need to think.
Poppy:Okay. But I'm here if you need me. Anytime. I mean it.
I set the phone down and turn back to the workbench. The bottles of essential oil blur in my vision as tears well up in my eyes.
I swipe at my eyes angrily. This is ridiculous. I'm not the kind of person who falls apart like this. I'm determined. Strong. Capable.
I'm not helpless.
But I feel helpless right now—completely and utterly powerless.
The baby is going to change everything. Make everything harder. Make me dependent on someone else—on Grant—whether I want to be or not.
Unless I don't tell him.
What if I just... don't say anything? What if I keep the pregnancy to myself, have the baby, figure it out on my own?
Grant is busy with his properties and his businesses. He lives in a completely different world than I do. Our paths don't naturally cross. If I don't reach out, I could probably go months—maybe even the entire pregnancy—without seeing him.
After the baby comes, I could say it's someone else's. Some guy I met after Florence. Grant would never have to know.
The relief that floods through me at the thought is immediate and intense.
No messy conversations. No explanations. No watching him try to fix everything while I slowly lose myself.
But even as I'm thinking it, I know it's wrong.
The baby is Grant's. He has a right to know. And keeping this secret would be exactly the kind of thing my father woulddo—controlling information, manipulating situations, making decisions for other people without their input.
I'd be no better than him.
