Inside, it was quiet.
Clean.
Soft lighting.
The nurse was kind.
Like she already knew who I was without asking.
We did:
Tests.
Bloodwork.
Routine questions.
Pap smear.
STD panel.
Everything.
“You’ve been clean six months?” the doctor asked, flipping through my chart.
I nodded.
She looked up at me, impressed. “That’s not easy.”
“No,” I said softly. “It’s not.”
She smiled. “Well… your body is responding beautifully to sobriety.”
I frowned slightly. “What does that mean?
She turned the screen toward her again, scanning the results.
“It means the drugs didn’t do the long-term damage we were concerned about,” she explained. “Your levels are stable. Your system looks… healthy.”
Healthy.
That word felt strange on me.
She looked at something on the screen again.
“And… you’re pregnant.”
I blinked once. “Pregnant?” I repeated.
She nodded gently. “Yes.”
I looked down at my hands, then slowly at my stomach.
There was that one feeling I’d been ignoring.
Real now.
My fingers brushed lightly over my abdomen.
