Father: Alive.Sort of.Technically.Currently being medically supervised because he’s been running on stubbornness and vibes.Self-neglect runs in the family.
Siblings: Alive.Absurdly healthy.Emotionally allergic to responsibility unless it’s engraved on a League Cup.
I breathe out and roll my shoulders back like I can reset myself.
I am fine.This is fine.Just another day ending in y.
The door clicks open.
I sit straight too fast, eager to just get this over with, as if speed can make the result kinder.
The doctor walks in with my chart and a tablet and that professional, cautious expression people wear when they’ve delivered news a thousand times and still don’t enjoy it.She’s calm in a way that makes me want to throw something soft and harmless—like a pillow.Or my entire life plan.
“Hi, Vesper,” she says, like we’re catching up over brunch.“Thanks for waiting.”
“No problem,” I lie, because I’m nothing if not committed to performing competence.
She glances at her notes.There’s a pause—small, but my nerves stretch it into an hour.
“So,” she says.“The blood they drew earlier today confirms Dr.Ruiz’s test.”
I curse Harvey for sending some fancy lab technician early—before breakfast—to draw blood.He claimed that it’d help my doctor’s appointment.Newsflash, it didn’t.I don’t want confirmation.I want out.
I latch onto the one thread of hope I have left.“Could there still be a false positive?”
It comes out too bright.Too desperate.Like I’m a kid asking if the scary movie is about to end.
“False positives on blood tests are extremely rare.This is hCG.It’s very clear.”
My stomach drops, slow and sickening.
She continues gently because she probably has a script for women who look like they might bolt.“How are you feeling?”
“Emotionally or physically?”I ask.“Because emotionally, I’d call it ...an existential crisis with a side of dread.Physically, I’m trying to be cool and failing.”
Her lips twitch, but she keeps it professional.“Physically.Can I get a few more symptoms?”
I swallow.My mouth is dry.“Tired.Nauseous.I’ve been traveling.My dad—” My voice trips on that word, because apparently my body has decided we’re not ignoring that part.“My dad fainted.The camp my family runs is in trouble.My best friends—who hate each other, by the way—got traded to the same team and now they’re doing that whole ...public handshake thing while privately wanting to set each other on fire.”
I realize I’m rambling and stop before I start listing time zones like they’re alibis.
She nods like it’s all relevant, because stress is relevant.Stress can wreck you.Stress can make you vomit.Stress can turn you into a shaky, anxious raccoon with a passport.
But stress doesn’t create hCG out of thin air.
“Well,” she says, voice measured, “based on your symptoms and your labs, you are pregnant.”
“But it could be wrong,” I argue anyway, because I’m committed to being annoying until the universe caves.
“I’m sorry,” she says, and there’s no drama in it, just fact.“That’s not how this works.You have many of the typical symptoms.You are pregnant.”
My brain cuts out like someone flipped a switch.
Pregnant.
I am pregnant.
There’s a baby on board.
