Macon.
The thought of him hit me in the stomach, harder than any punch I’d ever taken. I paced the living room, hands cradling mymidsection, thumb rubbing small, nervous circles over the new bump that was just starting to show under my shirt.
Montana meant Macon. And Macon meant a lot of things—risk, pain, the possibility that he’d take one look at me and wish he could erase the last year of his life.
Or maybe he’d be relieved. Maybe he’d slam the door in my face. Maybe he’d tell me, in that slow, deadpan way of his, that he never wanted to see me again.
I didn’t want to find out. Not really.
Instead, I packed.
I’d never traveled light before. My luggage had always been more about armor than necessity: suits, shoes, watches, enough hair product to survive a siege. But this time, I packed only the essentials—two pairs of jeans with elastic waists, three old sweaters that still smelled faintly of laundry soap, a folder of documents that proved my identity and my child’s, and one framed photo of my mother, young and laughing, hair caught by the wind.
I placed it face-down in the bottom of my suitcase, wrapped in a t-shirt so the glass wouldn’t break.
The whole process took less than twenty minutes, but I spent an hour zipping and unzipping the bag, each time re-evaluating whether I could live without this or that. Did I really need the passport? The old college hoodie? The ugly ceramic mug from a gas station in Wyoming?
I added the mug at the last minute. Go figure.
My phone buzzed again, this time an incoming call. I glanced at the screen, already knowing who it was. HARRISON STEELE, in all-caps. The family phone plan. The name had never changed, not even after I left for college, not even after the fights.
I watched it ring out, the green and red circles slowly shrinking to nothing. He left a voicemail.
I didn’t listen.
Instead, I sat on the edge of my bed and let the stillness settle. For the first time since the test, I let myself imagine a future: me, a baby, a little cottage in Portugal or New Zealand, goat cheese and fresh bread and maybe a dog. It was almost laughable, the image so soft and earnest it made my chest hurt.
I traced the curve of my stomach again, this time with less fear and more curiosity. I wanted to meet this person. I wanted to teach them how to bake bread and say “fuck you” to bullies and wear ugly sweaters in public.
I wanted them to feel visible.
I stood up, went to the window, and looked out over the city. The lights made a million tiny stars, more honest and unpretentious than any real constellation. Below, cars moved in orderly lines, never deviating, never risking a single surprise.
Not like me. Not anymore.
I went back to the suitcase, zipped it up, and set it by the door. I felt an irrational surge of pride, as if the act of closing the bag made everything official. I was leaving, and this time, no one could stop me.
Except maybe myself.
There was still the matter of Macon.
I’d spent weeks telling myself he didn’t deserve to know. That he’d left me in that barn, that he hadn’t called, hadn’t written, hadn’t cared.
But the truth was messier, as truths always are. Maybe he’d been just as scared as I was. Maybe he’d had reasons. Maybe he was as lost as I had been, standing in the bathroom at dawn with a positive test and no plan.
The thought made my eyes sting, but I wiped them dry before the tears could form.
I knelt by the suitcase, unzipped it, and dug until I found my passport. I flipped through the pages, half-expecting to find some message scrawled in invisible ink, some directive from theuniverse. There was nothing, of course. Just stamps and dates and evidence that I’d existed, at least a little.
I replaced it, zipped the bag again, and stood.
“It’s just you and me now,” I said to the room. “And I promise, you’ll never feel invisible.”
The phone buzzed a final time. Another voicemail. I let it go.
On the way out, I paused by the mirror. I looked tired, but not defeated. For the first time in months, I looked like someone who could start over.
I palmed the key, rolled my bag to the door, and hesitated.
Just for a second, I considered the detour. One flight, one rental car, one night in Montana. Did Macon deserve to know? Did I owe it to him? Did the baby?
The questions hung in the air, heavy as thunderclouds, waiting for a wind to break them open.
I stepped into the hall, suitcase in tow, and let the door close behind me.
If I ever came back, I decided, I’d have answers.
