We’re baking a human.My body opened a side hustle without consulting me.
In conclusion: I’m fucked.
The doctor keeps talking—follow-ups, vitamins, baseline labs, ultrasound scheduling.Her words wash over me, and I catch fragments the way you catch rain in your palm.A little.Not enough.
“Prenatal care ...”
“Dating ...”
“Support ...”
“Partner ...”
That last one trips me, hard.
“It’ll be helpful if your partner joins you for your first ultrasound,” she says, like she’s suggesting he bring snacks.
“My who?”I ask, because I’m barely grasping “pregnant” and now she’s trying to add bonus characters.
“Your partner,” she repeats patiently.“It helps to have them involved from the beginning.”
I blink.“Uh.There’s no partner.”
There are two very involved men who aren’t part of this baby’s DNA—unless the laws of biology changed while I was filming in Finland, which would honestly track with my life lately.
But there’s no boyfriend.No husband.No neat little box to place this in.
The doctor doesn’t miss a beat.“Then you need your support system.”
Support system.
My mind goes strangely quiet.
Mom is gone.
Dad is trying, but he’s worn down, scared, and pretending he isn’t.
My brothers live on the ice and in their own heads.
And then there’s Cally and Monty—two men orbiting me so hard I can feel it even when they’re not in the room.One all warmth and devotion, ready to throw money at a problem until it behaves.The other all focus and insistence, prepared to drag truth into the light and refuse to let me hide.
My stomach twists again.
It’s not fair to ask them for this.It’s not fair to drag them into my body’s bad timing.It’s not fair to tie them to a baby that isn’t theirs, to a life I’m not even sure I want.
It’s also adorable that I keep pretending fairness has ever been part of my story.
I force my hands to stay still in my lap.I lock down every twitch like I’m bracing for turbulence.The doctor watches me, waiting for tears, panic, anger—something.
I could cry.
I could scream.
Instead, I nod like she just told me my car needs an oil change.
“Okay,” I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I deserve.“So what happens next?”
She hesitates, then launches into the next steps—appointments, more bloodwork, an ultrasound to establish dates and confirm everything is where it should be, warnings signs I need to take seriously.
