23. Mallory
Mallory
Three weeks later, I found myself sitting cross-legged on a yoga mat that smelled vaguely of feet, trying to focus on a woman with a soothing voice and a foam pelvis in her hands.
Birthing class.
Jackson sat beside me, his legs too long for the tiny mat, hands resting stiffly on his knees. He looked like he wanted to ask for a syllabus, or maybe the emergency exit. I could feel the discomfort radiating off of him like steam.
The instructor—Sharon, according to her name tag—was explaining the stages of labor with the help of lamina ted posters and a baby doll that looked far too cheerful for the demonstration.
I tried not to laugh when she said “transition phase” and Jackson visibly paled.
To be fair, it was a lot. There were words like dilation, crowning, mucus plug—all delivered in that oddly calm, affirming tone that made you feel like leaking and screaming were all part of a guided meditation.
And they were, in a way. Just the real, messy, blood-and-guts version.
The class was full of other couples, most of them curled into each other, hands linked, bodies leaned close in a quiet show of we’re in this together.
Jackson sat upright, as if proximity might get him pregnant by accident.
I tried to tell myself it was fine. That showing up counted.
That he was trying. That this—being here—meant something.
But when Sharon turned the lights down to play a short video of a live birth, I felt him tense beside me. His shoulder brushed mine, rigid.
He whispered, “Do we have to watch this?”
I whispered back, “Yes.”
He didn’t breathe for the full eight minutes. Not until the baby cried. Then he blinked hard and ran a hand through his hair.
Afterward, Sharon invited us to practice breathing exercises with our partners. I turned toward Jackson and found his eyes darting everywhere but me.
“Okay?” I asked, keeping my voice low.
He nodded, but it was the kind of nod that meant not really.
Still, he took my hands. Loosely. Like they might burn.
We did the first inhale together, but on the exhale, I saw it—his jaw tightening, his knee bouncing. The faint sheen of sweat along his hairline.
By the second round, he let go.
“I need a second,” he muttered, and stood.
He stepped over the other mats, mumbled something to Sharon, and walked out the door.
I sat there, surrounded by soft breathing and low lights, pretending I didn’t feel the whole class glance toward me like they were expecting me to chase him.
I didn’t.
Not right away.
I finished the practice, let my body sway through the motions, and when Sharon dismissed us for a short break, I gathered my things and followed.
Truthfully I needed time to gather my thoughts, just as much as he needed air.
I found Jackson outside, pacing along the sidewalk near the front entrance, arms folded across his chest like he was trying to contain whatever storm had risen up inside him.
“Hey,” I said, keeping my tone light. “You okay?”
He looked up, startled, like he’d forgotten I existed beyond the room.
“Yeah. I just... Jesus, Mal. That was intense.”
I leaned against the wall next to him, letting the cool brick chill my back.
“It’s supposed to be,” I said. “It’s kind of an intense thing.”
He exhaled hard, rubbing his hands over his face.
“I know. I thought I could handle it. But sitting in there, hearing about contractions and tearing and—God—the video... I just... I couldn’t breathe.”
There was no judgment in me. Not really. Just a quiet ache, low and pulsing.
“Jackson,” I said gently, “this isn’t easy for anyone. But I don’t get to panic and walk out. I have to do this.”
His eyes flicked to mine, guilt rising fast and hot.
“I’m not trying to bail,” he said quickly. “I just needed air. I want to be here. I really do. It’s just... a lot.”
“It is a lot,” I said. “But you have to be in it, not just around it.”
He nodded, eyes on his shoes.
“I’m trying,” he said. “I want to be the guy you can count on. I want to prove that I’m serious.”
I studied him. The way his fingers fidgeted. The line of tension in his jaw. The genuine effort tangled with fear.
“I know you’re trying,” I said. “But this—this baby—doesn’t need someone who shows up halfway and then disappears when it gets uncomfortable. I need to know that you’re here all in, even when it’s messy. Especially then.”
He looked at me for a long beat, the silence stretching like a string between us.
“I want to be,” he said. “But I don’t know if I know how.”
And there it was.
The thing I’d been afraid of all along.
That his words might be promises he wanted to keep—but couldn’t.
That he loved the idea of stepping up more than the reality of it.
I sighed. “Okay. Then let’s figure it out. Together. Or not at all. But don’t pretend you can carry this if you can’t.”
He looked down again, shame clouding his expression.
“I’ll come back in,” he said.
I shook my head. “No. It’s okay. Go home. Think about this. Really think about it.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Okay.”
I watched him walk away again—his hands shoved in his pockets, his steps slow and uncertain.
And this time, I didn’t feel abandoned.
I just felt sad. Not for me. For him. Because if he didn’t figure this out soon, he was going to miss the best thing he never saw coming.
And I was already starting to believe I’d be okay either way.
***
The text came in just after nine. I was already in bed, face washed, body curled around a pregnancy pillow that was starting to feel like my most reliable relationship.
Jackson
Can we talk tomorrow?
I stared at the screen for a few seconds. I didn’t roll my eyes. I didn’t sigh. I just… felt tired. Soul-deep tired.
Still, I typed back.
Mallory
I work at eleven. Meet me at the coffee bar by the arena at ten.
His reply was fast.
Jackson:
Okay. See you then.
I turned off my phone, exhaled slowly, and sank back into my pillow. Not angry. Not hopeful. Just… ready to end this chapter, whatever that meant.
—
By 9:58 the next morning, I was walking into the familiar hum of espresso machines and clinking mugs. The sky was dull and gray outside, and my coat still held a whisper of mist from the short walk over.
Jac kson was already there. He hadn’t ordered food, just a black coffee he held with both hands like he needed it to warm more than his fingers.
His foot tapped a slow, nervous rhythm under the table.
He looked up when I approached, stood halfway, then sat again as I slid into the chair across from him.
“Hey,” he said.
His voice was careful. Not cold, but cautious. Like he didn’t want to tip whatever balance we had left.
“Hi,” I replied, setting my drink down. Decaf latte, because my OB had become a voice in my head stronger than my own cravings.
We sat in silence for a second. I watched the way his eyes flicked toward me, then away again. His fingers tapped against the cup lid. He looked like he had something rehearsed—but the lines had vanished the second I showed up.
“You’re not here to fight for this,” I said.
He winced.
“No,” he admitted, his voice low.
I nodded, letting the words settle between us like snowfall. Not loud. Not shocking. Just quietly cold.
He glanced out the window. “I thought I was. At first. I told myself I just needed more time. That maybe once I really understood what it meant, I’d feel… ready.”
I didn’t say anything. I just watched him.
“ But the truth is,” he continued, “every time I picture it—doctor’s visits, the birth, late nights, first steps—it’s like I’m outside the picture. Like I’m watching someone else’s life.”
I blinked slowly. My hand curved over the swell of my belly, now unmistakable even beneath my coat.
“You’re not a bad person,” I said quietly. “But this isn’t something you can half-do. Not for me. Not for them.”
He looked back at me then, and his eyes were red-rimmed, tired in a way that was deeper than sleep.
“I know,” he said. “And I don’t want to confuse things. Or come in and out. That’s worse than not being there at all.”
My throat tightened.
“This might be my only chance,” I whispered. “My body isn’t exactly reliable. And this baby… it’s everything to me. I need to give them a clean story. Not a maybe. Not a ghost.”
Jackson swallowed hard, nodded slowly.
“I’ve talked to a lawyer,” he said after a long pause. “He can draw up the paperwork. Termination of parental rights. Something official. No loopholes, no questions.”
Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them away. This wasn’t the moment to fall apart.
“You sure?” I asked.
“I’m not proud of it,” he said. “But yeah. I’m sure.”
He pulled out his phone, tapped something quickly, then looked up at me.
“You’ll get a notification in a second.”
My own phone buzzed in my bag.
I pulled it out, unlocked it. My breath caught.
Zelle transfer: $9,000.
No message. Just the number sitting there like a quiet apology.
“Jackson…”
“I know you’ll say no,” he cut in. “But don’t. It’s done. I’m not buying my way out. I just want you to have what you need. Crib. Car seat. Diapers. Whatever.”
“I didn’t ask for this,” I whispered.
“I know,” he said. “But it’s the only thing I can give that might make a difference.”
He stood then, slow and deliberate, like he was afraid he might change his mind if he didn’t move.
“I hope you have a beautiful life,” he said, eyes full and honest. “Both of you.”
I couldn’t speak.
My throat was tight with all the words I didn’t need to say, because somehow, we’d already said enough. He gave me a small nod—barely more than a dip of his chin—then turned.
One step back. Then another.
He moved with the weight of finality, like every footfall carried the sound of goodbye. And then he disappeared throug h the front door, swallowed up by the pale gray light of morning, leaving only the faint chime of the bell in his wake.
I sat there, still and slow, in the warmth of the coffee shop, surrounded by the soft clinks of mugs and the low murmur of other people’s normal mornings. The smell of espresso hung in the air, cozy and unbothered by the storm that had just passed through me.
One hand came to rest over my belly, cradling the curve that had finally begun to show. The other wrapped around my now-cold latte. My fingertips curled tight against the paper cup like they needed something to hold on to.
I wasn’t grieving.
Not exactly.
And I wasn’t celebrating either.
It felt more like... standing at a threshold. One door had just closed with a quiet, gentle click. No slamming. No fury. Just a man, walking away with soft eyes and the decency to leave it clean.
And maybe... just maybe... another door was about to squeak open. Not wide yet. Not enough to walk through. But enough to glimpse something bright beyond it. Something better.
I didn’t know what came next. Not entirely.
But I wasn’t alone.
Not in my body. Not in my story. Not anymore.
And as I sat there, the weight of the moment sinking in, I felt something shift in me—steady, small, and full of a kind of courage I hadn’t known I had.
A beginning. Quiet, yes. But mine.