42. Victoria #2
Maybe a message asking whether I am safe.
The thought of him steadies me and unsettles me at once.
My mother notices my hand moving toward the bag.
“Is that him?”
I stop.
Her voice is not angry.
It is afraid.
I draw my hand back.
“Yes. Maybe.”
She grips the counter again.
“Victoria, be careful.”
“With Lorenzo?”
“With all of them.”
All of them.
I look at her and realise there are things here I do not know. Things that happened in this house while I was hiding in another one. Things my mother folded into silence because she thought silence could protect us.
I used to believe mothers always knew what to do.
Now mine looks lost.
And I am too tired to pull the truth from her with Elsie in the next room.
I pick up my coat.
Her face changes.
“You’re leaving?”
“Yes.”
“But you just got here.”
“I know.”
“Victoria—”
“I can’t do this right now.”
She takes a step toward me.
“Please don’t leave angry.”
“I’m not angry.”
That is not entirely true.
I am hurt.
I am frightened.
I feel sick.
And beneath all of it sits a grief I do not have a name for yet.
“I wanted you to hold me and ask too many questions,” I say. “I wanted you to be my mother.”
Her face breaks.
“I am your mother.”
“Then why do I feel I have to be careful with you?”
She covers her mouth.
For a moment, I think she will tell me.
I see the words rise.
I see them catch behind her teeth.
Then Elsie calls from the sitting room.
“Mummy!”
Not Aunty Vicky.
Mummy.
Olivia told her.
My mother flinches.
I see it.
A real flinch.
At my daughter’s voice.
That decides it.
I cannot tell her everything.
Not today.
Not while I do not know what sits in this house with us.
I walk into the sitting room and force a smile for Elsie.
“Ready, baby?”
She looks up from her toys.
“Already?”
“We’ll come back.”
My mother stands in the kitchen doorway.
I do not know whether that promise is true.
Olivia reads my face and says nothing.
She only gathers Elsie’s things.
Mrs. Abena rises slowly, watching my mother with quiet concern.
At the door, my mother touches my arm.
Her fingers are cold.
“Call me when you get there,” she says.
I nod.
“Victoria.”
I look at her.
She leans close enough that only I can hear.
“If anyone asks, you were never here.”
My blood runs cold.
Before I can answer, she steps back.
The door closes between us.
I stand on the path with Elsie’s hand in mine, staring at the peeling paint.
Home is behind that door.
But my chest does not know how to believe it.
The nausea gets worse three streets away.
At first, I blame the meeting with my mother. Then the car. Then the lack of sleep. Then the fact that my body has been surviving on fear for too long and has finally decided to punish me.
But when the driver brakes at a light, my stomach turns so violently that I press a hand to my mouth.
Olivia leans forward. “Vicky?”
“I’m fine.”
“You are not fine.”
Mrs. Abena’s eyes soften with concern. “You look faint.”
“I just need air.”
The driver glances at me through the mirror. “Should I pull over?”
“No.”
“Yes,” Olivia says at the same time.
I close my eyes.
The nausea passes, but leaves sweat along my spine.
I know this feeling.
Not exactly.
Not with certainty.
But my body remembers before my mind allows the thought to form.
Fatigue.
Tender breasts.
A strange ache low in my back.
Tears sit too close to the surface for no reason.
No.
No, no, no.
I look down at Elsie. She is humming to herself, pressing her toy against the window.
My hand moves to my stomach.
Olivia sees.
Her expression changes.
She says nothing.
That is how I know she has thought it too.
“Take me to St. Catherine’s,” I tell the driver.
Olivia sits up. “The hospital?”
“Just for a check.”
“Victoria.”
“Please.”
The black sedan behind us follows when we turn.
Of course it does.
Lorenzo’s protection.
His eyes, even when he is not there.
For once, I am grateful.
And terrified.
At the hospital, I tell Olivia to stay with Elsie in the waiting area.
She argues.
I win only because my voice cracks.
The nurse at reception asks questions I answer badly. Date of last period. Symptoms. Medication. Stress. Possibility of pregnancy.
Possibility.
The word feels too small for what it does to my heart.
I give a urine sample with shaking hands.
Then I sit in a small room with beige walls and a poster about prenatal vitamins curling at one corner.
The clock ticks.
A trolley passes outside.
Someone laughs at the nurses’ station.
Life continues here too.
People get results. People bleed. People heal. People receive news that divides their lives without asking permission.
I fold my hands in my lap.
My thumb rubs over the place where Lorenzo’s number sits inside my phone.
He should be here.
The thought arrives without warning.
Then fear follows it.
If I tell him, everything changes again.
He will close every gate.
He will put more cars behind me.
He will make decisions before I have finished breathing.
Because he does care.
That is the problem.
A doctor enters with a nurse behind her.
She introduces herself, but I barely hear the name.
She sits opposite me.
Her face is kind.
“Victoria,” she says, “your test is positive.”
The room becomes very quiet.
I stare at her.
Positive.
One word.
A whole future inside it.
The doctor continues speaking. Early pregnancy. Blood test to confirm levels. Follow-up appointment. Rest and stay hydrated. Avoid stress where possible.
Avoid stress.
A strange laugh almost escapes me.
Instead, I press a hand over my mouth.
My eyes burn.
I think of Lorenzo first.
Not even myself.
Lorenzo.
His face when he looks at Elsie. His hand covering hers when she draws. His voice when he said he does not joke with his blood.
His blood.
My hand lowers slowly to my stomach.
Fear comes first.
Then joy.
Then terror so strong I cannot sit still.
“Are you all right?” the doctor asks.
I nod because I do not trust my voice.
She gives me papers. Advice. A small sealed test for my records because I ask for one without knowing why.
Two pink lines.
I hold it in my palm inside the hospital bathroom ten minutes later.
Two pink lines.
I cry without sound.
Not because I am unhappy or happy.
Because my body is holding too much, and there is nowhere else for it to go.
When I step outside, Olivia stands at once.
Her eyes drop to my hand.
I close my fingers around the test.
She goes still.
“Vicky?”
“Not here.”
She nods.
No questions.
Not now.
Mrs. Abena looks at me with a softness that almost undoes me, but she also says nothing.
We leave the hospital through the side entrance.
Rain has started again, light and cold.
The driver opens the door.
I sit in the back alone for a moment before the others climb in. My phone lies in my lap. Lorenzo’s name waits inside it, one touch away.
I do not call.
Not yet.
I need certainty.
Blood test. Dates. Time to think without his fear becoming mine.
The radio comes on when the driver starts the car.
A newsreader speaks over the low hiss of static.
“Authorities are still seeking information regarding the disappearance of Francesco Ricardo, last seen days before what was expected to be a high-profile private wedding. Sources close to the family have declined to comment. Police have not confirmed whether foul play is suspected, though questions remain unanswered…”
My breath stops.
Francesco.
Missing.
Last seen before the wedding.
Not dead.
Not officially.
Just gone.
The report continues, but I barely hear it.
My fingers tighten around the pregnancy test until the plastic edge presses into my palm.
Lorenzo said he had taken care of the threat.
I stare through the rain-streaked window at the hospital entrance. People come and go beneath umbrellas. A man helps an elderly woman into a taxi. A nurse smokes near the corner, shoulders hunched against the weather.
The world looks normal.
That frightens me more than chaos ever did.
I look down at the test in my hand.
Two pink lines.
A missing man on the radio.
My mother telling me to say I was never there.
My old life waiting somewhere behind a door that no longer feels safe.
My throat tightens.
“Is it finally over?” I whisper.
No one answers.
Olivia reaches across the seat and takes my free hand.
I let her.
My phone lights up.
A missed call notification.
Mum.
I stare at it.
Then another message appears.
Call me when you can.
I do not move.
I want to call her.
I want to demand answers.
I want to hear the mother I remember, the one who would tell me to come back, lock the door, eat first, cry later.
But when I close my eyes, I see her flinch at Elsie’s voice.
I hear her whisper.
If anyone asks, you were never here.
My thumb hovers over her name.
Then lowers.
I turn the phone face down on my lap.
This wasn’t the mother who raised me.