9. Sabrina
9
Sabrina
Five and a half months later...
S even months pregnant.
One hundred and ninety-six days of harboring a secret the size of a rapidly expanding watermelon.
Said watermelon is currently attempting to rearrange my internal organs via a series of aggressive kicks aimed directly at my bladder.
Thanks, kid. Mommy appreciates the enthusiasm.
Really.
I shift uncomfortably on my ergonomic office chair, which is currently stationed in my living room because my actual downtown office is now a fond memory and an unjustifiable expense. Welcome to Taylor Strategic Communications, Global Headquarters, aka my one-bedroom apartment. The glamour is almost overwhelming.
Running a PR firm while gestating a human can be... interesting. Client meetings are exclusively Zoom now. Pitches are delivered with a breathless enthusiasm that’s fifty percent passion, fifty percent ‘please let this end before I need to vomit or nap.’
It’s exhausting. The constant vigilance, the low-grade nausea that never fully disappeared, the sheer physical awkwardness of trying to appear sleek and competent when you feel like an overinflated beach ball with swollen ankles. Add in the crushing weight of The Secret, and it’s a miracle I haven’t spontaneously combusted.
My laptop beeps, mocking me with an unanswered email from a potential new client. I should be crafting a killer proposal, showcasing my unique blend of crisis management expertise and marketing savvy.
Instead, I’m staring blankly at the cursor, contemplating whether pickles and ice cream actually taste good together and trying to discreetly adjust the waistband of my maternity leggings for the fifth time this hour.
No one even knows I’m pregnant yet. I haven’t told anyone. Well, except for Tatiana. We were having dinner at her and her husband’s ridiculously gorgeous penthouse. As usual, I was wearing an oversized sweater to hide the baby, though I guess it was super obvious what I was doing, because at the table, Jess, never one for subtlety, made a joke about me being next to have a baby after Tatiana and Dom. I nearly choked on my water, and managed to signal Tatiana for a bathroom escape.
Once we were safely away from prying eyes, Tatiana gently confronted me. She knew something was up; she recognized the signs. Cornered and exhausted, I finally admitted I was seven months pregnant. The relief of saying it aloud was immediately followed by terror. Tatiana, sharp as ever, put the pieces together... the Vegas timeline, me waking up in Leo’s room. She softly guessed Leo was the father. I didn’t deny it, just confirmed he wouldn’t remember anything because of the GHB and begged her, practically pleaded, not to tell anyone. She promised and didn’t push for more details, just offered her unwavering support.
Knowing she wouldn’t betray my secret has made the burden slightly less crushing.
Slightly.
A sharp rap on my apartment door jolts me back to the present. I’m not expecting anyone. And packages usually get left downstairs.
I heave myself off the chair and waddle towards the door. I pause next to my closet, and automatically shrug on an oversized, cable-knit sweater.
Maybe it’s just Mrs. Hanik from next door needing sugar again.
I peek through the peephole.
Oh, holy hell.
My mother. Standing in the hallway, carry-on suitcase at her feet, peering expectantly at my door.
Unannounced.
Uninvited.
Here.
Now.
No, no, no. Not today.
I haven’t figured out how to tell her yet. I haven’t drafted the talking points, prepared the damage control strategy. My carefully constructed wall of denial and avoidance crumbles.
Maybe she won’t notice. The sweater is thick... or I can just say I’ve put on weight.
“Sabrina? Honey, are you in there?” Her voice comes through the door.
Can I pretend I’m not home? Sick? Suddenly called away on urgent (imaginary) client business?
No, she has a key.
She’ll just let herself in.
I take a deep breath and plaster on the ‘everything is normal’ smile.
I open the door.
“Mom! What a surprise!” I force enthusiasm into my voice, blocking the doorway slightly with my body. “What are you doing here?”
My mom smiles, that warm expression that usually makes me feel safe just makes my stomach clench today. “Just decided to pop down for the weekend! Had some extra airline miles. Thought I’d surprise my favorite daughter.” Her eyes, sharp and observant despite the smile, immediately scan me from head to toe. I see the flicker... the slight frown, the questioning glance at my bulky sweater.
She knows.
Or suspects.
Mothers have radar for this stuff.
“Well, surprise!” I say, trying to sound delighted instead of cornered. “Come on in.”
I step back, turning sideways slightly, hoping the sheer volume of the sweater provides adequate camouflage.
She steps inside, setting her suitcase down. Her gaze sweeps around my living room/office, taking in the stacks of files, the whiteboard covered in campaign notes, the general air of controlled chaos. “Working hard, I see.”
“Always,” I say brightly. “Just wrapping up a proposal. Can I get you some water? Tea?”
Anything to create distance, buy time.
“Water would be lovely, honey.” She sinks onto my couch, her eyes following me as I head towards the kitchen alcove. The sweater isn’t working. It’s too obvious. Wearing a thick wool sweater indoors on a warm day like this?
Might as well hang a sign around my neck saying ‘Incubating Human, Please Ignore.’
I return with two glasses of water, handing one to her. I deliberately choose to stand, leaning against the kitchen counter, hoping distance helps.
She takes a sip, studying me over the rim of the glass. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken questions.
“So,” she begins casually, but there’s nothing casual about the look in her eyes. “Everything okay, Sabrina? You seem… a little tired.”
“Just busy,” I hedge. “Relaunching my firm has been intense.”
“And you’re wearing that heavy sweater indoors...” she observes mildly. “Are you feeling chilly?”
Busted.
There’s no point.
The charade is over.
The carefully planned reveal, the gentle breaking of the news... all out the window.
Might as well rip off the Band-Aid.
I sigh, dropping the fake smile. I place my water glass on the counter and turn to face her fully, letting the bulky sweater hang loose. There’s no hiding the pronounced curve of my belly now. Seven months pregnant is not subtle.
My mother’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. Her hand flies to her mouth, stifling a gasp. The color drains from her face. “Sabrina… oh, ho ney… are you…?”
I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. Tears prickle behind my eyes again.
Damn hormones.
She stares at my stomach, then back at my face, her expression a maelstrom of shock, confusion, and something that looks painfully like disappointment. “But… how? When? Who…?”
“About seven months,” I say softly, finally finding my voice.
“Seven months?” Her voice is barely a whisper. “And you didn’t tell me?” The hurt in her eyes is a physical blow.
“I… I didn’t know how,” I stammer, feeling like a guilty teenager again. “I wanted to wait for the right time.”
Liar. You wanted to wait until forever.
She stands up slowly, walking towards me. She stops a few feet away, her gaze fixed on my belly. “Who’s the father, Sabrina?” Her voice is quiet now, but steel underlies the tone.
This is it. The moment of truth. Or, rather, the moment of carefully constructed fiction.
“It… it was someone I was seeing briefly,” I begin, reciting the cover story I’d mentally rehearsed a thousand times. “Right after I started the firm. It wasn’t serious. He, uh… he moved abroad. For work. Before I even knew I was pregnant.”
“Moved abroad?” She raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Where?”
“Australia,” I improvise quickly. “Got a big job offer. Happened really fast.”
Oh god, she’s not buying it.
My mother looks me straight in the eye, her gaze piercing. I feel like she can see right through the flimsy lie, right down to the terrified truth. But she doesn’t call me out directly.
Instead, her expression hardens, the initial shock replaced by a weary sadness that hurts more than any anger ever could.
“Oh, Sabrina,” she sighs, shaking her head slowly. “Not again. Please tell me you’re not making the same mistakes I did.”
And there it is. The comparison I’ve dreaded my whole life. The fear that I’m doomed to repeat her history... abandoned, raising a child alone, struggling to make ends meet. It hits every single one of my deepest insecurities.
“This isn’t the same, Mom,” I say, my voice rising defensively. “It’s not! I have my own business. I can support myself. I can do this.”
“Alone?” she challenges, her voice sharp now. “Raising a child alone is harder than you can possibly imagine. The sacrifices, the judgment, the constant fear… do you think I wanted that for you? I worked so hard, sacrificed so much, so you wouldn’t have to struggle like I did! So you could have choices! And now… this?” She gestures towards my stomach, her expression laced with disappointment. “A baby out of wedlock, with a father who conveniently disappears to the other side of the world? It sounds awfully familiar, doesn’t it?”
Her words land like blows. Every fear I have about single motherhood, every insecurity rooted in my father’s abandonment, rises to the surface. I feel cornered, judged, misunderstood. The careful control I maintain cracks.
I lower my eyes. “You don’t understand. This isn’t about repeating your mistakes.” But then I meet her gaze again, feeling a surge of defiance. “ This is my choice. My life. And my baby.” The last words come out fierce. Possessive.
“And the father?” she presses. “Does this man in ‘Australia’ even know? Are you going to tell him?”
“No,” I say firmly, crossing my arms protectively over my belly. The lie solidifies, becoming a shield. “He doesn’t know. And he’s not going to. It’s better this way. This baby doesn’t need a father who isn’t fully committed, who might just… disappear.”
Like Dad. Like Leo.
“So you’ve made the choice for him,” mom replies. “Made him disappear. Without even telling him. Without even trying to make it work.”
She’s right, I suppose. But she doesn’t understand who Leo is. That he’s no father.
So I don’t answer. I just bow my head again.
My mother stares at me, her face etched with worry and a deep, profound sadness. I see more arguments forming on her lips... the pleas for practicality, the warnings about the difficulties ahead. But she must see the stubborn resolve in my eyes, the defensive walls slamming down.
She sighs again, a long, weary sound. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Sabrina. I really, truly hope you do. Because this… this is going to change everything.”
She doesn’t hug me. Doesn’t offer comfort. The disapproval hangs between us, a chasm opened by my secret and her disappointment. She stays for another half hour, but it seems like an eternity. Our conversation is stilted and awkward, circling the elephant in the room, or rather, the baby in the room. She asks practical questions about doctors and finances, her administrator brain kicking in, but the warmth is gone, replaced by a worried reserve .
When she finally leaves, pulling her suitcase behind her with a promise to call later, the apartment feels suffocatingly silent again. I sink back onto the couch, tears finally spilling over, hot and angry.
That she brought her suitcase here meant she’d originally planned to stay at least overnight. But she changed her mind, obviously, because of me.
Because of my baby.
God, her disapproval hurts more than I expected. Her judgment, her fear that I’m repeating her past… it reinforces every doubt I have.
But it also strengthens my resolve.
She doesn’t understand. No one does. They don’t know Leo. They don’t know that he wouldn’t remember, wouldn’t care. Keeping him away isn’t just about protecting myself from heartbreak. No, it’s about protecting this baby from the potential devastation of an unreliable, uninterested father. I’d rather raise the baby alone than with a man like that in my child’s life.
I place a hand on my belly, feeling a distinct flutter, a tiny kick against my palm.
It’s okay, little one .
It’s just you and me.
I’ll keep you safe.
I promise.
And somehow, despite the fear, the guilt, and the overwhelming uncertainty, I know I will.
I have to.