“Okay,” I said again, firmer this time. To myself. To the reflection staring back at me. To the tiny cluster of cells that had no idea what kind of world it was being born into. “We'll figure this out.”
It wasn't a plan. It wasn't even hope.
But it was a start.
That night, I found a plate of warm cookies outside my bedroom door.
Chocolate chip. Still soft from the oven, the chocolate slightly melted, the edges golden brown. The smell hit me before I evenbent down to pick them up—warm and sweet and so achingly familiar that my chest tightened.
A note sat folded beneath the plate, written in Mrs. Patterson's careful handwriting. The same handwriting I'd seen on birthday cards and thank-you notes for fifteen years.
Whatever it is, dear, it'll keep until morning. Get some sleep.
I stood in the hallway holding the plate, tears blurring my vision.
How did she always know? How did she always know when I was falling apart, when the weight was too heavy, when I needed someone to remind me that kindness still existed?
She didn't know about Marcus. Didn't know about the pregnancy. Didn't know any of the details that were threatening to drown me. But she knew something was wrong. She'd known since that first morning after he left, when she'd looked at me across the breakfast table and seen through every wall I'd built.
I carried the cookies into my room and sat on the edge of the bed. Ate one, then another, letting the sweetness dissolve on my tongue. Outside my window, the stars were out, scattered across the sky like promises I wasn't sure I believed in anymore.
Tomorrow, I would have to figure out what to do. Tomorrow, I would have to make decisions, face realities, and build some kind of plan from the rubble of my life.
But tonight, I had cookies. And a note from someone who cared. And the sense that whatever was coming, I wouldn't have to face it completely alone.
It wasn't much.
But it was enough to get me through the night.
CHAPTER 7
Grace
Three days.That's how long it took me to work up the courage to call.
I rehearsed what I'd say. Practiced in front of the bathroom mirror until I could get through the whole thing without my voice cracking. Calm. Clear. No emotions. Just facts.
Marcus, I need to tell you something. I'm pregnant. The baby is yours. I thought you should know.
Simple. Direct. The kind of conversation adults had when their lives fell apart in unexpected ways.
I practiced it in the shower. Practiced it while kneading dough. Practiced it at three in the morning when sleep wouldn't come, and my mind kept spinning through worst-case scenarios. What if he hung up? What if he didn't believe me? What if he said something cruel, something that would shatter whatever fragile composure I'd managed to build?
What if he didn't answer at all?
I picked Tuesday morning because I knew his schedule. After eleven years, I knew it by heart. On Tuesdays, he had back-to-back meetings until eleven, then a break before his lunch withthe partners. If I called at 11:15, he'd be between things. He'd be checking his phone. He'd have time to talk.
He'd have to listen.
Tuesday morning arrived too fast. I woke at four, as usual, and spent the next seven hours in a state of low-grade panic. Every task felt impossible. I burned the first batch of muffins because I forgot to set the timer. Spilled coffee across the counter and had to mop it up with shaking hands.
By eleven o'clock, I was hiding in my bedroom with the door locked, phone in hand, heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my teeth.
11:05. Too early. He'd still be in the meeting.
11:10. Getting close. My palms were slick with sweat. I wiped them on my jeans, one at a time.
11:12. Three more minutes. I could do this. I could do this.
