The decision, in this case, that I’m doing this alone.
Not completely alone, obviously. Leigh exists, and Leigh is the human equivalent of a safety net. If emotional crises were an Olympic sport, she would have a medal cabinet. But there’s a difference between having support and having the father of your child involved.
And he is very much not involved.
Leigh is currently sitting at my kitchen table, surrounded by laptops and notebooks like she’s building a small tech empire instead of helping her pregnant best friend keep her life from collapsing. “So,” she says, glancing up from the screen. “Have you thought any more about telling Connor?”
I don’t even look up from the toast I’m aggressively buttering. “No.”
She watches me for a second. “You didn’t even pretend to consider it.”
“Why should I?”
Leigh leans back in the chair and studies me in that quiet way she does when she thinks I’m about to say something stubborn. Her tone goes uncharacteristically gentle. “He should know.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s the father.”
“That possibility didn’t seem particularly important to him when we were dating. I’m sure it wouldn’t now either.”
Leigh winces slightly at that.
“He was a bad boyfriend,” I continue, wiping butter crumbs off my fingers. “Me being pregnant isn’t going to magically turn him into a good one.”
“That’s not necessarily?—”
“I’m not chasing a man who acts like I don’t exist, Leigh.” The words come out sharper than I intend, but the sentiment stands.
Connor had a very specific way of treating me when we were together. The kind that makes you feel like an accessory to someone else’s life instead of a participant in it.
Pregnancy would not improve that dynamic. If anything, it would make it worse. Even if he were the father, I wouldn’t let him near my baby. He’d use them as content and nothing more.
Leigh sighs softly. “I just don’t want you doing everything alone.”
“I’m not alone.” I gesture toward her with the knife. “You’re here.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” I admit. “But you’re more than enough. You’re a handful.”
She grins proudly. “I have a reputation to uphold.”
“I’ll say.”
“But if you ever change your mind,” she adds, “we can track him down.”
I snort. “I don’t need a bounty hunter.”
“You’re pregnant,” she points out. “Technically, that’s a group project.”
“Not this one.”
Leigh watches me for a moment longer before nodding slowly. “Alright. Then we focus on you.”
The next day, I’m stuck in a waiting room that smells like hand sanitizer and quiet anxiety. I hate noticing all the smells I’ve never noticed before. But apparently, the blueberry pays attention to everything.
I sit in one of those slightly-too-small chairs flipping through a magazine I’m not actually reading, trying not to spiral while a daytime talk show plays on mute in the corner. There’s a heavily pregnant woman across from me eating crackers, and for a second, I consider asking her if this ever starts to feel normal.
