Chapter 26
Twenty-six
Addie
The lights in the exam room are low, and the music piped in over the speakers is classical as usual. Today is my seven-month appointment. I settle back on the paper-covered table and smooth my hands over my stomach, more out of habit than nerves.
Dr. Carroll knocks lightly before coming in, her smile easy.
“Good to see you, Addie,” she says, washing her hands at the sink. “How are you feeling?”
“Good,” I answer. “Tired, but good.”
She nods. “That’s about right for this stage. How’s the morning sickness?”
“It still comes and goes.”
“Does the medicine work?” She taps at her tablet, logging what she needs.
“Yes, thank goodness.”
She measures my belly, the tape cool against my skin, and then glances up at the wall-mounted screen as a simple chart comes up.
“Everything’s right on track,” she says. “This is your growth. It’s headed in the right direction.”
I smile as she lifts the Doppler and the baby’s heartbeat fills the room—strong, fast, and unmistakable. I feel the familiar release again. Relief arrives first every time before anything else has a chance.
“That sounds great,” she says. “Textbook.”
I take a deep breath and blow it out.
She finishes her notes and glances up at me. “Is Luc working today?”
The question is purely conversational, but it still takes me a beat to answer. “Yes,” I say. That’s not a lie. It’s just incomplete. He doesn’t know I’m here, and I didn’t invite him.
She hums, seeming unbothered, and wheels her stool closer. “These last couple of months tend to make things feel more real for partners. Sometimes, that’s when the nerves really kick in.”
I give a small smile. “That tracks.”
She laughs quietly. “I like to remind people that no matter how prepared you feel, the first few days are still a real adjustment. Newborns don’t believe in long stretches of sleep.”
I nod. I’ve never been a great sleeper, but I’m prepared.
“They usually wake every three hours at first,” she adds. “Sometimes more. It can feel relentless if you’re not expecting it.” She tilts her head, thoughtful. “Have you and Luc talked about how you’re planning to split the nights?”
That’s a reasonable and entirely appropriate question. But I don’t have an answer to it. “I’m still figuring that out.”
What I don’t say is that I haven’t let myself think about that. It’s easier to stay focused on what I don’t want—Evie managing me, Luc stepping in, decisions being made around me—than to sit with what this actually requires. Nights. Feedings. Recovery. Those parts won’t wait for me to feel ready.
Because the question isn’t really about sleep. It’s about whether I’m planning to do this alone. And I still don’t have an answer to that either.
“That’s fair,” the doctor replies easily. “You’ve got time. But I always encourage couples to talk through expectations early, even if the plan changes once the baby arrives.”
Couples. The word passes through me and lodges somewhere I don’t want to examine too closely. I nod anyway.
She finishes up with her exam, reassures me again that everything looks exactly as it should, and gives me instructions for the next appointment. When she steps out to let me get dressed, the room feels quieter than before, the kind of quiet that invites thinking, if you’re not careful.
I pull my shirt down over my stomach and sit for a moment, one hand resting low, feeling the slow roll of movement beneath my skin. The appointment went well. There’s nothing to fix with the baby, nothing to worry about. And yet the questions linger—not the medical ones, but everything else.
When I leave the clinic, the late-afternoon light is bright and ordinary.
People move around me with purpose, lives in motion, and I step into the flow of traffic on the sidewalk without hesitation.
I don’t feel lonely. Not exactly. But I feel the shape of something missing.
I acknowledge it quietly and then let it go.
Yet I still feel thoughtful as I turn to walk through the parking lot.
Dr. Carroll’s questions weren’t intrusive. They weren’t even personal, not really. They were practical, framed around care and planning and shared responsibility. But they’re lingering in the space behind my eyes because they’ve highlighted something I’ve been skirting around.
I’m doing this. I know that. I chose it. But choice doesn’t erase absence, and independence doesn’t mean I’m immune to noticing when a chair is empty.
I picture the first weeks after the birth the way she described them—nights broken into hours, time blurring.
There’s a version of that future where someone else is there, where exhaustion is shared and laughter slips in sideways between feedings.
But I don’t dwell on it. I don’t know that it’s possible for me.
What I grieve isn’t Luc, I tell myself. It’s the version of things that belongs with a past that never fully materialized for me.
And I don’t need to reach for it anymore.
My siblings have offered to help, and I know I’m capable of managing.
I won’t be the first person to do this solo. It happens all the time.
It’s just that you’re choosing that intentionally, a voice notes from somewhere inside of me. But that’s what I have to do. It’s what my circumstances dictate.
The baby shifts, and I smile despite my turmoil. This part is real. My body is doing something extraordinary, and there’s comfort in that certainty.
I find my car and pull out of the lot, merging onto the road with the rest of the afternoon’s drivers.
The remainder of the day stretches out ahead of me, full of ordinary tasks and familiar faces.
A few errands, and then there’s dinner tonight with my siblings.
Noise and warmth and opinions I didn’t ask for.
Sounds pretty good.
After dealing with the printer, going to the bank, and making a quick stop for chips and guacamole, which I normally don’t like but am craving, I head over to Ryker and Ginny’s for our dinner.
The house is already loud when I arrive.
Even before I enter, I can hear Ric telling a story about Liz when she first moved to Paradise.
Evidently, she knocked a big display of cereal boxes into the apples at the grocery store, and both of them went everywhere.
Laughter carries through the open front windows, overlapping voices rising and falling.
“He was talking to some woman,” Liz explains. “And I just high-tailed it out of there.”
Ric’s deep laugh, which we don’t hear nearly enough, follows. “I was talking to Kaitlyn, our cousin.”
They’re still laughing as I knock and step inside. Ginny spots me immediately and lights up, crossing the room with her arms wide. She wraps me in a careful hug, one hand warm against my back.
“There she is,” she says. “How are you feeling?”
“Good,” I answer.
She pulls back and nods with satisfaction. “You look good. What did the doctor say?”
“I’m seven months pregnant.”
That gets a laugh out of everyone, and this is what I really like. No Evie to ruin anything. Just us, free to relax.
The kitchen is crowded, the counters already covered with snacks—cheese and crackers, fresh fruit, and I add my chips and guacamole.
Sera gives me a look. She knows I don’t like guac.
I shrug. “I’m having weird cravings.”
“That’s normal enough, though,” she assures me. “It’s when you want to put Nutella and cheese together that things become weird.”
Faces scrunch, and everyone groans.
Ryker is by the stove, sleeves rolled up, managing several things at once. Someone passes me a glass of sparkling water, and I accept it with a quiet thank-you.
Conversation flows around me as I settle into a chair in front of the chips and begin scooping. I don’t have to perform here. I don’t have to explain myself. That alone makes me feel better.
At some point, Ginny starts talking about the nursery and the mural I’ve painted there. She’s animated in a way that makes everyone lean in as she describes the colors, the light in the afternoons, and the way the room feels finished without being precious.
“It’s beautiful,” she says, like it’s a fact no one could dispute. She pulls out her phone and shows the pictures around.
“It’s not done yet,” I clarify.
“This looks fantastic,” Josie says.
I smile, feeling emotion well within me. These people know the way to my heart. “Thank you.”
Liz tilts her head. “Too bad you’re doing all that work in a rental you’re not going to stay in.”
The comment lands with a soft thud, and I’m instantly on guard.
“You’re going to learn real fast that hauling a stroller up those stairs is no joke,” she continues.
“My sister-in-law was dying after Nicky was born. Their apartment in Vancouver was a second floor, like yours. And once Nicky was mobile, it got even worse. It’s part of why they moved here.
Stairs are a killer with young children. ”
There’s no malice in her tone, and I hadn’t thought about any of that. Maybe I should. I take a sip of water before answering, buying myself a moment. “Maybe,” I say evenly. “Or maybe I’ll figure it out.”
She just smiles. “Maybe you will.” She doesn’t seem interested in forcing my hand or picking a fight.
The noise swells again as dinner is served. Ryker and Ginny have picked up an Italian feast from a local place. Bowls are passed around and chairs pulled up to the table. I sit there with my hands resting loosely in my lap, surrounded by warmth that doesn’t ask me to be anything other than present.
I’m halfway through my plate when Ryker catches my eye across the table and tips his head toward the kitchen. After a moment, he rises and heads that direction, and I follow him a minute later, carrying my glass with me.
The kitchen is calmer than the dining room, the noise softened by distance. Ryker leans back against the counter, folding his arms. “I ran into Luc a few days ago,” he says.
Something tightens in me briefly, but it passes quickly. I set my glass down. “Where?”