Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
The morning light filtering through my bedroom window is too bright, too harsh. I roll over with a groan, my stomach churning. Third morning in a row I’ve woken up like this. Must be the stress of everything finally catching up with me.
I drag myself out of bed, passing the blank walls where our photos used to hang. The nail holes stare back at me like tiny wounds, reminders of everything we’ve lost. We had so many plans for this house. That corner in the living room where we were going to put a crib someday. The backyard where Jeremy talked about building a swing set.
The box he dropped off yesterday still sits unopened on the kitchen counter. I make my way around it, like it’s a black hole threatening to pull me in. The coffee maker–a wedding gift from his parents–sits quiet and unused. I haven’t been able to stomach coffee lately. Even the smell of it sends my stomach rolling.
Instead, I sink into the couch with a glass of water, letting my mind drift to when things started changing. Was it the new job? The long hours spent apart? Or did we just stop trying somewhere along the way?
I remember the night he got the call about the interview at the power company. We were lying in bed, talking about our future like we used to do every night.
His eyes lit up when he told me about the salary, the benefits.
“If you get this job,” I’d told him, curled against his chest, “we could start saving for a family.”
He’d smiled then, that bright, hopeful smile I fell in love with in high school. “Our own little soccer team,” he’d joked, pulling me close. We stayed up late that night, picking out names, planning nursery themes, dreaming of Saturday mornings with tiny feet pattering down the hallway.
But then he got the job, and suddenly our conversations about the future became conversations about overtime and missed dinners and lack of quality time. The dreams of a family faded into schedules and separate lives. When did we stop dreaming together? When did “someday” become “never”?
My fingers trace patterns on the couch arm, remembering how we used to sit here every evening. He’d tell me about his day at work, I’d show him my latest paintings. Sometimes we’d just sit in comfortable silence, his hand playing with my hair. Now the silence in this house feels like a physical weight.
The worst part is, I can’t even pinpoint the exact moment things changed. It wasn’t one big fight or betrayal. We just… drifted. Like boats that slowly slip their moorings, barely noticeable until you look up one day and realize you’re lost at sea.
Maybe if he hadn’t taken the job, we’d still be together. Still be that young couple who spent weekends picking out paint colors and arguing over where to hang pictures. Still be the people who couldn’t fall asleep without saying “I love you” three times, like a magic spell to ward off bad dreams.
The crackers taste stale, but I force myself to eat a few. We used to talk about having twins ourselves–they run in his family. He’d even picked out names: Emma and Olivia for girls, Lucas and Noah for boys. Now those names float in my mind like ghosts of a future we’ll never have.
Suddenly, the crackers turn to ash in my mouth. I barely make it to the bathroom, retching into the toilet. Everything spins as I kneel on the cold tile, tears mixing with sweat on my face. This feels different than stress or grief. This feels like…
I reach for the hand towel, but it’s not on the rack. I grab some toilet paper and clean my mouth. The bathroom closet feels miles away, but I manage to stumble to it, pulling open the door.
That’s when I see them. The box of my brand new pads, pushed to the back corner, untouched for… how long?
My hands shake as I count backward. One month since the divorce. Two weeks before that when… but no, even before then…
Oh god.
The room tilts sideways as realization hits. I grip the counter, staring at my reflection in the mirror. The pale face looking back at me holds the same wide-eyed panic I feel rising in my chest.
I reach into the back of the closet, behind the extra shampoo bottles and old makeup bags, to where I’d hidden a small box months ago. Back when Jeremy and I were still trying for that future we’d planned. Back when we thought we had forever.
The pregnancy test feels heavy in my trembling hands. How many of these have I taken over the years? Always negative. Always followed by Jeremy’s gentle “Next time, baby. It’ll happen when it’s meant to.”
Three minutes. That’s what the instructions say. Three minutes to find out if my life is about to change all over again.
I pace the small bathroom, counting tiles, counting seconds, counting heartbeats. The test sits on the counter like a time bomb. Through the window,
When the timer on my phone finally chimes, I almost can’t look. I almost don’t want to know.
But I force myself to turn, force myself to pick up the plastic stick that holds my future in its tiny window.
Two lines.
Clear as day.
Positive.
My eyes find my reflection again, but this time the face looking back at me holds a different kind of panic. Because this isn’t just about me anymore.
I’m pregnant.