My child too.
Notthechild.
Notachild.
Mychild.
Like it was already real.
Like it was already his.
Like this wasn’t just a contract anymore.
My heart fluttered.
I didn’t know what to say.
Didn’t know how to respond to that.
So, I just nodded.
And he stayed.
We sat there in that sterile recovery room—him in the chair, me on the exam table, the faint hum of medical equipment in the background—and neither of us said anything.
But the silence wasn’t empty.
It was full.
Full of things we couldn’t name yet.
Things the contract didn’t account for.
Things that were already changing everything.
Fifteen minutes later, the nurse came back and cleared me to leave.
Amai stood when I did.
“I’ll bring the car around,” he said.
I nodded, still processing, still trying to make sense of what had just happened.
By the time I made it to the clinic entrance—moving slowly, one hand pressed against my lower abdomen—Amai was already there, driver’s side door open, waiting.
I stopped on the curb.
“Where’s your driver?” I asked.
“Sent him home.”
“Why?”
He looked at me like the answer should be obvious.
“Because I’m taking you.”
I wanted to argue.
