“I know,” she says, voice muffled against my chest. “It’s just hard.”
Stepping out of my hold, she wipes her face and inhales deeply. “I know y’all are here for me,” she continues. “But sometimes this house feels so big and empty and silent, it’s easy to believe that I’m entirely alone.”
I nod, unsure of what to say.
“Um, four hundred degrees,” I say, pointing at the sausage and pasta creation awkwardly. “For an hour.”
She punches the buttons on the oven until the red preheat light gleams.
“Will you stay for dinner?” she asks in a quiet voice. “I don’t…I’m tired of eating alone.”
“Of course I’ll stay,” I nod. “For as long as you want.”
Chapter 6
Abby
Eight Weeks
“Thompson?”
Hastily shoving my phone in my tote bag, I clumsily rise from the unbelievably uncomfortable waiting room chair.
Shouldn’t they want expecting mothers to be as comfortable as possible?
“Yes, hi, that’s me!”
The nurse smiles warmly at me, and I follow her down the hall into the exam room.
“How are you feeling today?” she asks as I hop up onto the equally uncomfortable exam table. The sanitary paper under me crinkles at an obnoxious volume, and I try my best not to fidget.
“Nauseous,” I say simply. “But also hungry. But also nothing sounds good.”
She chuckles, shaking her head with a knowing smile.
“Yes, ma’am, those rising hCG levels will do that to you.”
“Hmmm,” I hum absentmindedly, watching closely as she sets up several items on the exam tray. “What exactly am I in for today?” I ask nervously. I famously donotdo well with doctors.
“The doctor will do a pelvic exam, and then just some routine testing, blood, urine, etcetera,” she says. “This is your first?”
“Yes,” I respond quietly.
She raises her head at the shift in my tone and looks at me with mild concern.
“There’s nothing to be nervous about,” she says in a comforting tone, misinterpreting the reason for the mood shift.
My first.
My only.
When I don’t respond, she follows up.
“Is Dad stuck at work?”
My stomach drops like a bag of bricks. I knew it would come up; it was inevitable. Babies don’t get made with just one person. But it still knocks the wind out of me.
“Dad, um, passed away,” I whisper, the lump building in my throat threatening to suffocate me.
