Chapter 14
Fourteen
HARLEY
Easton’s letters always shatter something inside of me.
Wiping away the tears that won’t stop forming, I read over his words again and again.
The way he writes tears through the armor I try to build every day.
He talks about names, about futures, about being there to hold me, and I want so desperately to believe him.
But believing feels dangerous. Hope feels dangerous right now.
I fold the paper carefully, pressing the creases flat with trembling fingers, and tuck it into the shoebox under my bed where all his letters live now. My secret hoard. My proof that somewhere beyond these walls, he still belongs to me.
But the truth doesn’t stop clawing at me. — I’m falling apart.
So I drive myself to therapy the next morning. My stomach is in knots and not even my favorite songs can drown out the voice that keeps screaming in my head.
Dr. Bec’s office smells faintly of lavender. The sofa’s too soft, too welcoming, and it makes me want to curl up and hide instead of speaking. But I know I have to speak. For me. For the baby.
“How have you been since our last session, Harley?” she asks, her voice gentle, the same way it always is.
I swallow hard. “Not great.” My hands twist together in my lap. “I’m trying. I’m eating because I have to, because it’s not just me anymore, but it feels … mechanical. Like I’m shoving food in just to prove I’m not failing the baby. But inside, I still feel guilty with every bite.”
Dr. Bec nods. “You’re carrying a lot right now. The stress of Easton’s case, your pregnancy, your own history with food. It makes sense that the old patterns would feel louder right now.”
Tears sting my eyes. “I thought I buried them. I thought I was past this. But the scale keeps creeping closer and my body feels foreign. Every mirror feels like a punishment … and then I get his letters. He’s dreaming about names and cribs and futures, and all I can think is what if I’m not strong enough to be a mother?
What if I fail before he or she’s even born? ”
She leans forward slightly, her eyes steady on mine.
“Wanting to be better than your own mother is not failing. It’s awareness.
It’s intention. And every meal you push through, every appointment you show up for, is proof that you’re already doing the work.
You don’t have to be perfect, Harley. You just have to keep showing up. ”
Her words break me open. The tears come hot and fast, and I cover my face, ashamed. “I don’t want to be like her. I don’t want my baby to ever wonder if they come second to my career or my pride or anything else. I want them to know they come first. Always.”
Dr. Bec waits until my sobs quiet. “Then keep holding on to that vow. Use it as your compass. You don’t need to erase every fear, Harley. You just need to keep choosing to love over the voice that tells you you’re not enough.”
I nod, but the knot in my chest doesn’t fully loosen. I know she’s right but knowing and believing are two very different battles.
Kennedy meets me for tea, instead of coffee, after my therapy session.
She chatters about the baby names Easton listed in his letter, trying to make me smile, but I just tuck them away silently.
Quinn. Lila. Rowan. Grace. Aria. They feel like stars, so far away, unreachable, but burning all the same.
Later that night, I sit at my desk with a blank document open on my laptop. The cursor blinks like a metronome against the silence.
To: HR Department
From: Harley Cole
Subject: Maternity Leave Request
The words feel surreal, even as I type them.
I’m only three months along, but the baby is real.
The appointments are real. The exhaustion is real.
And I know I won’t be able to keep up the deadlines and long hours once I start showing, once the fatigue hits harder.
I owe it to the baby, and to myself, to be honest now.
Luckily for me, Easton worked hard enough over the last couple of years to make a perfect little nest, just in case something ever did happen.
I stare at the email for a long time before hitting send.
To whom it may concern,
I am formally requesting maternity leave beginning later this year, with an anticipated due date of November 28th.
I understand company policy requires advance notice, and I want to ensure we can make a smooth transition.
Please let me know the necessary steps and documentation required to process this request.
Thank you for your understanding,
Harley Cole
My finger hovers over the mousepad, shaking. Because sending it makes it real. Sending it means admitting to the world that I’m about to be a mother.
Finally, I press the button.
The whoosh of the email leaving feels both terrifying and relieving.
I close my laptop and press my hands against my stomach. It’s still flat, still mine, but it won’t be for long.
“Your daddy’s dreaming about you,” I whisper into the quiet. “And I’m trying, too.”