Chapter Eight- Eshe
One Year, Two Months Later
I stared at him for a full three seconds before saying it. "I'm pregnant."
I took off my rarely worn glasses and set them on the coffee table. The book in my lap? Forgotten. I’d been pretending to read, trying to build up the courage to tell him. After three days of carrying it around in my chest like a bomb, I just blurted it out.
He choked mid-sip on the Corona he was drinking, coughing so hard I thought he’d pass out.
"What?" he gasped, eyes bulging. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then sat up and paused the basketball game.
The room fell silent. "I'm pregnant," I repeated.
Slower. Clearer. We locked eyes. I made sure he caught every syllable.
His face went pale—as pale as a dark-skinned man’s face could. I didn’t even know that was possible. "You can’t be. I pull out."
I raised an eyebrow and gave him that nigga, please look. Too many nights he’d held me tight, whispered my name while he came deep inside me, stayed there even after, wrapped around me like a second skin. And how many times had he slid it back in, soft and sleepy, just before dawn?
Subconsciously, I knew he wanted this. A part of him did. "Okay, sometimes I pull out," he mumbled, scratching his neck. "But I thought you were on the pill." "So the fuck did I."
I thought it was a stomach bug. I felt like shit for days. Went to the doctor just to be safe. Imagine my surprise when she told me I was pregnant. I took those pills faithfully. But I guess that little half-percent chance becomes real when you're constantly getting your back blown out.
“I’d never want to be pregnant by you.” I didn’t mean for the “by you” part to slip out, but it did.
His jaw clenched. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" he snapped. It was the most emotion I’d ever heard in his voice. “We’re not serious,” I said plainly, even though I wanted to scream.
I didn’t say what I really felt—that he was emotionally unavailable, cold as hell when it mattered, and that his job would always come before anything else.
You can’t wake up at 7 a.m. ready to defend a client in court when a baby’s been screaming since 2. I knew that. He knew that.
But I’d raise this baby alone if it came down to it. “I guess we don’t have a choice,” I added. “In seven and a half months, we’ll be parents.” “What?!” he shouted, leaping up like the floor burned. “No, Life. You gotta get an abortion.”
I heard my own heart crack down the middle. I blinked back the sting in my eyes. I wouldn’t cry. My pride wouldn’t let me. “Okay. I’ll get an abortion.”
No begging. No fighting. I wasn’t about to spend eighteen years chasing a man who made it clear he didn’t want this.
“I’m sorry, Eshe, but—” “No buts,” I cut in.
“I knew what this was from the start.” This was my fault.
After that first night, I should have left him alone.
He told me exactly who he was, and I ignored his testimony.
I pushed myself up from the recliner without another word and headed straight for his bedroom. I needed to get as far away from him as I could. I knew I wasn’t in the right state of mind to drive home.
Suddenly, I was exhausted—down to my bones.
But I still refused to cry.
I stripped out of my clothes and slid beneath his covers.
The scent of him wrapped around me, and instead of comfort, it made my stomach turn.
I reached for the bottle of Ambien in his nightstand, popped one without water, and let the bitter aftertaste burn my tongue.
I didn’t want to think. I just needed sleep.
Eventually, it overtook me.
I woke to the sound of my name. Soft, almost sweet. He was standing at the foot of the bed when I opened my eyes. “I have to go to work,” he said. “Okay.” My voice came out hoarse.
I watched him watch me, his eyes dropping to my barely rounded stomach—not much different than the day he met me. The baby hadn’t even had time to grow yet.
He looked... sad. His eyes were puffy. Maybe he’d been crying. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on my part. Either way—fuck his feelings.
“I’m sorry,” he added, almost whispering. “I got a call.”
I looked to the clock above his head. It was 11 p.m. That meant one of his clients was in jail again, and he had to go get them out. Back to work. Business as usual. “It’s okay,” I said, just loud enough for him to hear. “I’ll be back. Wait for me, and we’ll talk.” “Uh huh.”
I closed my eyes. Not because I was tired, but because I didn’t want to see his face anymore. I didn’t open them again until I heard his front door close.
Still, I didn’t cry. I knew if I started, I might never stop.
I clamped my fist between my teeth, bit down hard enough for the skin to break. The metallic taste of my own blood spread over my tongue, but it grounded me. Kept the sob lodged deep in my chest from escaping.
Until I couldn’t hold it in anymore. So I screamed. Loud. Guttural.
Then I got up.
His scent in the room made me nauseous. I screamed again, this time knocking everything off his dresser. Expensive cologne bottles, lotions, perfumes he’d bought me—all that shit shattered on the wood floor like my heart had.
I hurt. Everywhere. Inside. Outside. In places I didn’t know could ache. And I needed that pain to stop. I would’ve sold my soul right then just to go back in time. Sit across from Isaiah in that café and pretend not to see Donte walk in.
Hindsight is 20/20, they say. And right now, everything looked clear as fucking day.
I never should’ve gotten involved with his ass.
He was selfish. Self-indulgent. A self-righteous motherfucker.
He didn’t appreciate shit. I poured into this man, and it was like trying to fill a cracked glass. He was always leaking. Always needing.
There were times I got on my knees to pray for him because I saw how heavy the world sat on his shoulders. I wanted God to ease his path, to make room for him to breathe. He didn’t deserve me—or shit I did for him.
I cooked. I cleaned. I played maid and porn star. Washed his clothes, folded his shit, ironed his shirts for court.
I raged through his room, yanked his TV from the wall. When it hit the ground and shattered, I felt a sick kind of peace. He loved that TV. Bought it with his first big paycheck to unwind with sports after long court days.
Next, I grabbed scissors and tore through his sheets, slicing the comforter, the pillowcases—everything.
Still, no tears. I stopped at the idea of bleaching his clothes—not out of mercy, but because I loved him.
As pathetic as that was. I wanted his career to flourish.
He couldn’t show up in court in bleach-stained Armani.
And with student loans and his momma’s lifestyle?
He damn sure couldn’t afford to replace them.
I was stupid. Told myself love required patience. I loved him more than he loved me. Hell, I loved him more than I loved my own skin.
That realization broke something else inside me. I clawed at my chest, digging my nails deep enough to scratch skin. The physical pain helped. A little. But not enough.
So I started punching the wall. Over and over. Until my knuckles split and bled. Until the emotional pain dulled just enough to breathe. Until my heartbeat finally stopped trying to crawl up my throat.
I slid down the wall, pressed my forehead to my knees, and rocked back and forth. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. “I’m strong,” I whispered. “This will not break me.” Over and over, I repeated it until the words became true.
When I finally stood again, it was daylight. Hours had passed. I went to his drawer, pulled out his favorite T-shirt and basketball shorts—the ones he told me not to take anymore. I slipped them on anyway.
He owed me. I spent nights when he was down reminding him who he was.
Told him he was brilliant. Powerful. Chosen.
Stayed when he snapped, when the stress of school and court made him cold.
Slept on his chest when he couldn’t sleep.
Let him bury himself in me when he needed to feel good.
I let him use me. And I smiled through it.
Fuck him.
I slid into a pair of his slippers, picked through the laundry for the few clothes I had here, grabbed my shoes, keys, and phone. Then I walked to his closet, pulled out the shoebox of cash he’d once told me about— “In case you ever need it and I’m not around,” he’d said.
I took six hundred dollars. That felt fair. He would pay for the abortion he wanted. I wasn’t about to be one of those women who brought a child into a world where one parent didn’t want it.
That’s all I took. Because he’d been generous ever since he’d been a lawyer. Bought me things. Pretty things. Things I planned to destroy the second I got home—just like he wanted me to destroy my baby.
A sob slipped out, low and bitter. But still, no tears.
I left his house telling myself I’d never look back.