Dani
The last week went by in a blur. I bounced back from the loss and filed an appeal for my client, determined not to let it define me. Harper and I had perfected our routine. Things with Logan were going well. We hadn’t talked about that night, but I knew when he came back, it would be harder to ignore. Since then, he’d checked in with small gestures—ordering dinner so it was ready when we returned from dance, taking something off my plate before I even realized I was carrying it. He never drew attention to it, but I noticed.
It was hard to consider what things would look like when he returned. I knew his focus was on Harper and that this was all just temporary, but I’d be lying to myself if I ignored the subtle ache that came with imagining days that didn’t include dance parties and check-ins with a broody single dad.
Maybe that’s why I was instead cursed with a night of excruciating pain.
The pain had started that afternoon, sharp and low, the kind that made your stomach twist and your patience vanish.
It wasn’t the first time. Endometriosis and I had been long-time enemies. We’d been trading blows since college. Most days, I could handle it with persistent defiance: heating pads, Tylenol,Zofran, and the art of pretending I was fine. But tonight, it hit harder than usual.
I’d had excision surgery a few years ago. It was a clean removal, they said. Careful hands, optimistic outcomes. For a little while, it worked. The pain eased, the flares disappeared long enough that I almost believed I could outrun it.
But it didn’t last.
They’d taken an ovary during the procedure. Told me it wouldn’t change anything and that I’d still be able to have children someday. They has said it with such confidence, like certainty was something they could promise.
But I wasn’t naive enough to take that at face value.
I knew better than to assume anything about my body would be simple.
Since then, I’d tried everything—hormones that made me feel like a stranger in my own skin, medications that dulled one thing only to sharpen another, treatments that promised balance but never quite delivered it. Nothing fixed it. The only thing that ever truly worked was managing the pain when it came and waiting it out.
Sometimes it made sense: my cycle, stress, long days that stretched too far. Other times, it just happened. No warning. No reason. And tonight was one of those nights.
By the time Harper noticed, I was already curled slightly on the couch, pressing the heating pad against my stomach, willing my body to settle.
“Are you sick?” she asked as I pressed a heating pad to my stomach and tried to smile through it.
“Not sick, sweetheart,” I said, easing myself onto the couch. “Just a little bit of pain. Happens sometimes.”
She frowned, her little brow creased with concern. “Like when Daddy gets headaches?”
“Kind of,” I said, trying not to laugh. “Just lower.”
She nodded solemnly, as if that made perfect sense. “Then you need rest. I’m very good at resting.”
I smiled. “Are you now?”
“Uh-huh. We should watch a movie. That helps me feel better.”
“Good idea,” I said, relieved for the easy distraction.
We had big plans for tonight: taco night, board games, and a bubble bath for her dolls. I glanced at the taco ingredients spread out on the counter, my stomach twisting slightly at the thought of chopping and cooking. The excitement of the evening we had imagined seemed to slip away. I wasn’t up for anything ambitious. So, movie night it was.
I texted a quick message to Logan,
Me:“Keeping it low-key tonight.
Movie and takeout. All’s well.”
Then I ordered pizza, set the thermostat a little warmer, and grabbed every blanket in sight.
By the timeFinding Nemostarted, Harper had tucked herself under my arm, the heating pad rested across my stomach, and a blissful quiet settled over the apartment.
“Do you want me to get your water?” Harper whispered, her voice serious.
“You’re such a good helper,” I said softly. “I’ve got it right here.”
