Chapter 8
Eight
EASTON
Easton,
It’s been two weeks since I last wrote you, and somehow it feels like two years.
Every day has been its own little battle, and I’m starting to realize that’s probably how it’s going to be from now on.
I’m back at work, sitting under fluorescent lights and smiling at people like nothing has changed …
but everything has changed. The whole time I’m answering phones and typing reports; there’s this quiet voice in the back of my mind whispering.
“You’re carrying his child,” it says. And nobody else knows. Not yet. Sometimes the weight of that secret feels heavier than the pregnancy itself.
I’m worried something might happen since it’s so early in the pregnancy, and you’re not supposed to tell anyone until it’s been at least three months.
Hard to believe I noticed within eight weeks.
People keep asking questions about the case, everyone wants to know what happened, but I’ve been careful to avoid all conversation relating to you.
Rick reached out and told me not to worry, but I’m not convinced.
The mornings are brutal. I never thought brushing my teeth could make me gag, but here we are.
Some days I can’t even make it out the door without leaning over the sink and praying the nausea passes fast enough so I won’t be late.
I used to love the smell of coffee at work, but now it hits me like poison.
One whiff and my stomach flips so hard I have to press a hand against my desk to steady myself.
I pretend I’ve taken a break from coffee, some kind of new trend, but it’s exhausting trying to cover up the truth.
The fatigue is worse than anything I expected. It’s not like being tired after a long day, it’s this bone-deep exhaustion, like my body is running a marathon while I sit still. By lunchtime, I feel like I’ve already lived three days.
And then there are these strange little moments that knock the air out of me.
I’ll catch myself resting a hand on my stomach, almost without thinking, like I need to remind myself it’s real.
It doesn’t even look different yet, but I feel it, this quiet presence that is both terrifying and miraculous.
When I look at the ultrasound picture again, that blurry little flicker, I remember that there’s a heartbeat.
A life. Our life. And for a while, the fear fades.
I’d be lying if I said the fear ever really leaves.
It’s always there, waiting to pounce. What if something happens to the baby?
What if I mess this up? What if I’m not strong enough?
My therapist tells me that these thoughts are normal, that first-trimester anxiety is common …
but I don’t think she knows how sharp the thoughts can be, how heavy they sit on my chest. Some days I feel like I’m already failing, like I’m already letting this baby down because I can’t eat right or because I’m still fighting with my reflection in the mirror.
I’m trying, though. I force myself to eat, even when every bite feels impossible. I remind myself I’m not just eating for me anymore. And when I get through a meal, even a small one, I count it as a win.
I think about you constantly. About how different this would be if you were here.
I imagined you sitting in the waiting room at my doctor’s appointment, tapping your foot, pretending to be impatient, but really just nervous.
I imagined your hand over mine when the screen lit up with that tiny flicker of a heartbeat.
You would’ve smiled, I know you would have.
The kind of smile that crinkles the corners of your eyes.
And instead of walking out clutching a picture alone, I would’ve walked out with you.
Kennedy went with me; she cried and is already calling herself auntie. Still kind of crazy to think she’s my best friend when the last time I wrote to you about her, I never thought we would get along.
You should have been there. I want to be angry at you for not being there, but I know it isn’t that simple. You didn’t choose this. You didn’t choose to miss the beginning of our child’s life. Still, anger mixes with sadness until I don’t know where one ends and the other begins.
I keep thinking about the promise you made that night in the car, at my parents’ house.
I fell apart, and you told me you weren’t going anywhere.
I held on to those words like oxygen. And now, here I am, two months into carrying your child, and I feel like I’m holding everything by myself.
I know it isn’t your fault, but it doesn’t make it easier.
I’m not telling anyone besides Kennedy. It’s too early, too fragile. For now, it’s just ours. That thought steadies me sometimes, that even with the miles and the walls between us, this secret is something only you and I share.
Our little heartbeat. Our little flicker of hope.
I don’t know what the next weeks will bring. I don’t know when I’ll stop being so afraid. But I do know this: no matter how scared I get; I’m already in love with this baby.
Always,
Your Little Bird