“I said I would.”
“I know. But I wasn’t sure you’d actually do it.” He stepped aside. “Come in.”
I walked into his house and immediately felt the difference between Kaisen’s world and Amai’s. Where Amai’s spaces were cold, controlled, and expensive, Kaisen’s house was warm. Lived-in. There were books on the coffee table, a laptop open on the couch, dishes in the sink visible from the entryway.
It felt like a home.
“I made pasta,” Kaisen said, leading me to the kitchen. “Nothing fancy. But it’s good.”
“You didn’t have to do all this.”
“I wanted to.” He pulled out a chair for me at the small kitchen table. “Sit. Tell me everything.”
So, I did.
I told him about the blood test, the ultrasound, the tiny flicker of a heartbeat on the screen. I told him about Dr. Beaumont’s instructions and the prenatal vitamins and the follow-up appointment in two weeks. I didn’t tell him about Amai holding my hand. Didn’t tell him about the way Amai had looked at the ultrasound screen like he was seeing something sacred.
Some things were mine to keep.
Kaisen listened, asked questions, celebrated every detail like it was the best news he’d ever heard. And for a little while, sitting in his warm kitchen, eating pasta and talking about the future, I let myself forget about the contract, the complications, and the fact that I was falling for a man I couldn’t have.
For a little while, I just let myself be happy.
I didn’t get home until after ten. Mama was in the living room watching TV when I walked in, and she raised an eyebrow at the time but didn’t ask questions.
I went to my childhood bedroom and closed the door. Sat on the edge of the bed and pulled out the ultrasound pictures, studying that tiny dark circle and the flicker that was my baby’s heartbeat.
My hand moved to my stomach.
“Hey,” I whispered. “It’s me. Your… I don’t know what I am yet. But I’m here. And I’m going to do everything I can to keep you safe.”
The baby didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. Was barely more than a cluster of cells at that point.
But I felt it anyway—the weight of responsibility, the fierce protectiveness, the beginning of something that felt like love.
I lay back on the bed, hand still on my stomach, and closed my eyes.
Everything had changed today.
And I had no idea what came next.
Week six hit me like a freight train I never saw coming.
I woke up at 5:47 AM with my stomach churning, a wave of nausea so intense it pulled me out of sleep before my alarm could. For a moment, I just lay there, hand pressed against my abdomen, trying to breathe through it. Trying to convince myself it would pass if I just stayed still and didn’t move too fast.
It didn’t pass.
The nausea built and built until I threw the covers off and stumbled toward the bathroom, one hand clamped over my mouth, the other braced against the wall for balance. I barely made it to the toilet before everything came up—stomach acid, bile, and the crackers I’d eaten at midnight because I couldn’t sleep.
I heard Mama’s footsteps in the hallway before I heard her voice.
“Baby?” She appeared in the doorway, her robe tied loose, her bonnet slightly askew. Then she saw me hunched over the toilet, and her expression shifted from concern to something that looked almost like sympathy. “Oh. There it is.”
Another wave hit, and I retched again, my whole body convulsing with the effort. Mama moved behind me without a word, gathering my hair back from my face and holding it with one hand while the other rubbed slow circles on my back.
“Welcome to pregnancy, baby,” she quietly said.
I couldn’t respond. Could barely breathe. My throat burned, and my eyes watered. I wanted to ask how long this was supposed to last, but I couldn’t form the words.
