Chapter 9
Savannah
My baking skills are back. After Griffin ate my cinnamon buns faster than ever before, I knew they were good. Now with two dozen cupcakes iced and packed, ready to go, along with two dozen small jars of caramels, I feel proud and a little tired from my morning activities.
But I had to keep myself busy. It’s not every day you wake and stumble across a big, broad, good-looking man sleeping on your floor.
I still feel like coffee and breakfast were not enough to offer him.
I assumed he worked late and stayed, but when he mentioned not wanting to leave me alone, my stomach swooped and my knees weakened.
I had to continue to move around my kitchen, pretending to fix my baked goods, to keep from thinking too hard about it.
Sympathy. That’s obviously what it is. Seeing me pregnant and all by myself, some people feel the need to help, and while I appreciate it, I don’t need his or anyone else's pitying gaze.
I can do this. On my own.
While he left not long after finishing his coffee and a second cinnamon bun this morning, needing to go home and shower, I'm refreshed and a little nervous about attending the birthday party today. But I know it’s a good opportunity for me to meet more people and hopefully spread the word about the bakery.
I need to make it a success. I need to ensure this plan of mine works.
There’s no way I’ll be going home with my head hung low in defeat.
I’ll never step foot in Williamstown again.
After tidying the apartment, I slide my feet into my sandals, feeling instant relief and a small amount of accomplishment they still fit without issue. Tying laces and clipping buckles on my shoes is now harder to do. I feel useless even trying.
Now fully dressed, I head into the bathroom to ensure my hair is still how I left it.
Down today. I usually wear it up, out of my face, so much so, it feels odd to have it down.
But I’m trying to put my best foot forward with this town.
And Griffin. I might be pregnant, but at least my skin and hair are glowing.
As I tap on a little lip gloss, my cell vibrates.
Mom.
I stare at her name on the screen for what feels like an eternity as my stomach coils, and I feel like I want to dry retch. But instead, I answer.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Faith.” Her tone has my shoulders lowering in disappointment.
I haven’t been called by my real name in months.
I took on my middle name Savannah when I moved, wanting to leave behind all my history and start fresh.
But I can tell by her tone she isn’t calling to make amends.
Isn’t calling to say they were wrong to disown me for becoming pregnant and not wanting to hide it.
I secretly hoped she might call to apologize and now want me to come home.
Not sure why I even expect it at this point.
“Have you had the baby?”
Okay, straight to the point.
“No. Still waiting. It’s not exactly something I can schedule.”
I match her energy. I know her beliefs are so ingrained, there’s no way she can move past the horror of me falling pregnant without being married.
“Honestly, Faith, the shame you’ve brought on this family. Pregnant, alone, no husband, no plan. It’s disgraceful.”
I hold back an exasperated sigh. “I have a plan. You know I have the bakery…”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Your grandmother put too many ridiculous ideas in your head.
You think you’re equipped to raise a child?
You think you can raise a child while working on your own?
You haven’t even repented for your sinfulness.
What kind of example is that for a baby? That poor baby deserves better.”
My heart aches, this whole conversation making me anxious.
“Your sister—”
“I’m not giving my baby to Eden,” I cut her off immediately, my voice raised, my blood pressure rising.
I feel empathy for Eden’s situation, not being able to get pregnant after so long of trying, but just because she can’t have a child doesn’t mean she automatically gets mine.
This isn’t school, where Eden got a new prom dress and I had to get the secondhand one.
This isn’t college, where Eden got a new car and I had to take the bus.
It also isn’t youth group, where Eden could study late with all her friends, and I had to come home immediately to cook dinner for everyone before she returned.
This is a new life. This is an actual human I’m growing.
Not merely a new toy I need to give away.
This baby was created at a time when I should’ve been saving myself for marriage.
From a young age I was taught that we’re supposed to help men not be tempted by being modest and being strong when they struggle.
But I caved to his pressure because I thought he would be my husband.
I thought we were as good as married in the eyes of the Lord.
Boy was I wrong. And while it’s clear he was using me, this baby was created and I’m keeping my baby.
I love it. I want it. And I can’t wait to be a mother.
“She’s more equipped than you. She’s married. Stable. God-fearing. She’s been trying for years. This is a blessing for her.”
“It’s not hers to be blessed with.”
“You’re being selfish. You think this is about you? You always think this is about you. It’s about giving that child a proper life. Not dragging it through your mess.”
“Mess? How can what I do be called a mess? I’ve worked hard all my life.
I’ve volunteered. I’ve given back to my community.
I put myself through school to live a dream of owning a bakery, and now I’m on my way to having exactly that.
Just because I’m not married and am pregnant doesn’t mean I'm a mess. I’m not giving up my baby, Mom. Eden has to find a different solution.”
This same conversation has occurred numerous times. Only last time did it end in her slapping me across the face. That was the final straw. That was when I knew I had to leave. For my safety and for the safety of my baby.
“Pastor Greg said that—”
“I don’t care what Pastor Greg says. It doesn’t have anything to do with him,” I snap, frustrated and hurt that she can’t let me be.
I’m not part of the family. I brought shame to them.
I understand. Their faith is all-encompassing and always has been.
I'm a disappointment. I get what I’ve done is less than ideal and not what they or anyone else wanted.
But it happened. It’s my responsibility and I’m owning it.
I’ve moved away. I’m not in their face. I’m not flashing my pregnant belly in front of my sister or in front of the congregation.
“You’ll regret it. Mark my words. God already told me this child isn’t yours. I heard His small voice whispering in the quiet, and I submitted. You will too.”
My stomach sinks even lower. “Thanks for the pep talk, Mom. I’m hanging up now.”
“Don’t you dare…”
“Goodbye, Mom.”
I end the call, my hands shaking, my heart racing.
I’ve never feared my family. I grew up doing everything they asked of me.
I kept quiet, didn’t talk back. Now, though, I know I was never really loved by them.
I may technically not be a mother yet, but I already know a child is something that should be cherished, loved, surrounded by positivity and opportunity.
And so for the first time in my life, I’m finding my voice as well as my own two feet and a new name.
Doing my life on my terms, not only for me but for my child.
Getting away from them and their toxic brand of Christianity was the smartest decision I’ve ever made.
Bringing me out of my thoughts, I hear a loud knock on the door downstairs.
Griffin is here. I look to the ceiling and blow out a breath before I take one last look in the mirror.
Flowy dress on, hiding my bump as much as possible, because some habits are hard to break.
Hair out, lips glossed, yet the tension still simmers across my shoulders.
But today, I’m meeting new friends. Today, I’m building new connections. Ones I hope won’t judge me for being a single mom. Ones I hope will support me with my new business. And I’m doing it with a man who seems angry twenty-four seven but is fast becoming a friend.
A man who sleeps on my floor and eats horrible baked goods and tells me they’re nice. Who still feels more genuine and honest than anyone else I’ve had in my life.