I squeeze my eyes shut. “Hi,” I whisper, and it comes out smaller than I meant it to.
A pause. Then, gently, like she’s stepping toward something skittish. “Where are you?”
“I’m safe.”
Another pause. Different this time. Marcia doesn’t sayGoodlike that solves anything. She just exhales, long and controlled,like she’s been holding her breath since the day I stopped being myself.
“Okay,” she says. “Tell me.”
So I do. Not the whole story. Not Marco’s worst nights. Not the way I still hear the sound of porcelain shattering at random moments like my brain refuses to delete it. Just enough.
“I left,” I say. “I got out. I’m in a new city. I’ve been working, waitressing. Trying to… figure it out.”
“You left him,” she says, and relief and fury braid together in the words.
“Yes.”
Silence. Then, very softly, “I’m proud of you.”
My throat tightens so hard, it hurts. I blink hard, angry at my own eyes.
“I’m not calling for that,” I say quickly, because emotion is a slippery thing and I can’t afford to lose my footing.
“I know,” she replies. “What happened?”
My gaze flicks to the pregnancy test on the counter, like it can speak for me. “I’m pregnant.”
Marcia goes quiet. “Oh, Lu…” she breathes. “Okay. Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Is it…” she starts, and stops, like she doesn’t want to say his name any more than I do.
“It’s not Marco’s.”
The relief in her silence is immediate. Tangible.
Then she asks, “Then whose is it?”
And there it is. The part of the truth that still feels impossible.
“A man I… met.”
“A man,” she repeats.
“One night,” I add quickly. “It was… it was a mistake.”
“Was it?” she asks, and her voice isn’t accusing. It’s careful. Curious. Like she knows me too well for easy answers.
I swallow. “I don’t even know his name.”
Marcia doesn’t gasp. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t scold.
“Do you want this baby?” she asks.
The question lands like a door opening. Like permission. Like someone offering me the truth and trusting me not to flinch away from it.
My hand finds my stomach again. “Yes,” I say, and my voice doesn’t shake. “I do.”
