Chapter 26 #2
“At Mikey’s,” he answers. “He didn’t stay long.”
I nod, processing that information.
“He’s not in a great place,” he adds.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I tell him, and mean it in the abstract. The feeling doesn’t move much beyond that. “I haven’t seen him in a bit. I’m taking some space.”
There’s a pause. Ryker shifts his weight. “Dr. Carroll still your OB?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Seventh month already, right?”
“That was today.”
His eyebrows lift slightly. “And he wasn’t there?”
“No,” I say. “He wasn’t.”
Ryker takes a breath, like he’s choosing his next words with intention. “Can I ask why?”
I meet his gaze. “Because he’s not part of this.”
Ryker doesn’t contradict me. He doesn’t argue. He just nods slowly. “I hear you,” he says. “But I’m not sure that’s completely true.”
I wait, trying not to feel defensive.
“As a pediatrician,” he continues, “I see what happens when parents stop communicating. Even when they have good reasons—especially then.”
I keep my expression neutral, my body still. This isn’t an attack, I remind myself.
“When things aren’t clearly defined, other people step in,” he says. “Doctors. Social workers. Sometimes the courts. It doesn’t start that way, but it can end there.” He looks at me for a moment. “Based on what I know about you, I don’t think that’s what you want.”
He straightens, lowering his voice slightly. “It would be different if you didn’t know where the father was. But you do. And he’s ready to be part of this. That matters, whether you want it to or not.”
I don’t like that he’s right. I look down at my hands, resting low over my stomach.
“I don’t want strangers deciding things for me,” I say quietly.
“I don’t want anyone deciding things for me.
” I look up at him. “That’s what makes this a struggle.
Because the minute I let Luc in, this stops being just mine.
” My fingers press lightly against my stomach.
“And I don’t know how to do that halfway. ”
“I know,” Ryker says. “And I’m not saying you owe Luc anything emotionally. You don’t have to be partners, but you are both parents. I’m saying sometimes inclusion is protection, even if it’s limited.”
I don’t answer that. But I don’t need to. Ryker isn’t asking for agreement. He’s offering perspective—without judgment, without expectation.
From the dining room, Sera laughs, the sound warm. Life continues, unbothered by the weight of the conversation in the kitchen.
Ryker meets my eyes again. “Whatever you decide,” he says, “make sure it’s a choice you can feel good about, that you made after considering what you truly want for yourself and for your baby. Try not to operate from a place of fear.”
I nod.
He gives me a hug, and I pick up my glass and head back toward the table, carrying the conversation with me, not as a burden, but as something to consider.
Dinner winds down as we return, and the house settles into a comfortable hum. Plates are stacked, conversation breaks into smaller clusters, and someone has turned the lights lower. I sit back on the couch in the living room, listening more than speaking, letting the evening taper on its own.
Ryker’s words stay with me. He didn’t try to scare me into compliance. He just trusted me to hold the information and decide what to do with it. That makes all the difference.
Across the room, Ginny catches my eye and smiles. I return it. Whatever tomorrow holds, tonight, I’m surrounded by people who show up without conditions, who make space without asking for anything back.
I think about today’s appointment again, not the questions, but the way everything had looked exactly as it should with the baby. Strong heartbeat. Steady growth. My body doing what it’s meant to do. That steadies me more than any reassurance from the outside ever could.
And I should probably share that with Luc. One call, just to provide peace of mind. But that conversation would shift everything toward something shared. Although maybe it already is?
But I don’t reach for my phone. I don’t let myself follow that thought any further.
I don’t feel the urge to defend myself against anything my siblings had to say this evening. I don’t feel the need to revise my choices in response to their concerns or predictions. I also don’t feel locked into anything. I can coexist with a little ambiguity. I think I still have time.
When I stand to leave, everyone surrounds me with hugs and reminders to text when I get home. I accept them all. Independence doesn’t require isolation, each one seems to tell me. Strength doesn’t need witnesses, I counter. But it doesn’t have to reject company either.
The drive home is steady. Traffic is light. I keep both hands on the wheel and let my mind roll through everything in the silence.
I’ve been telling myself that staying separate from Luc keeps things clearer. Simpler. But simple and under control aren’t always the same thing. And spending time with my family reminds me that input doesn’t have to be a threat or a loss of autonomy.
I rest my hand over my stomach and feel the slow shift beneath my palm. This baby doesn’t know about pride or fear or history. He only knows presence.
I don’t have to decide everything tonight. I don’t have to rewrite the past.
But I do have to think beyond my hurt and certainly beyond my fear. Ultimately, I have to think about what’s best for more than just me.
When I get home and park, I step out of the car with that truth walking quietly beside me. Not pressure. Not surrender. Just recognition that remaining in control may look different than I’ve ever imagined before.