Chapter 7 #2
Her eyes soften in that way that makes me feel both seen and called out. “You’re allowed to protect yourself,” she says. “You’re allowed to be careful. You’ve been through things that make that reasonable.”
I wait for the but. It’s coming. I can feel it.
“But,” she says, “there’s a difference between being careful and being so walled-off no one can reach you. You can’t spend your whole life building fortresses just to keep the pain out. The same walls that keep the bad out keep the good out too.”
It hits harder than I want it to. I look away.
“That’s not fair,” I say quietly. “You know what happened. You were there. You saw what he did to me.”
Mom’s face softens. “I know, baby.”
“There were no signs,” I continue, my throat tightening.
“No red flags. Nothing that would have told me to run. And then he just…” I shake my head.
“How am I supposed to trust my own judgment after that? How am I supposed to believe anything anyone says when I was so completely wrong about someone I thought I knew?”
“He made his choices,” Mom says firmly. “That wasn’t about you missing something. That was about him being a coward.”
“But I didn’t see it,” I say. “That’s the point. And now I’m supposed to, what, trust a guy I barely know because he made some promises in a parking lot?”
Mom reaches across the table and covers my hand with hers. “I’m not saying trust him blindly. I’m not saying forget what you’ve been through. I’m just saying don’t let one person’s betrayal convince you that everyone will do the same thing.”
I don’t answer because she’s right and I hate it.
“I’m not saying fling the gates wide open,” she adds. “Maybe just start with cracking a window.”
I roll my eyes, because the alternative is crying again.
“And you need to tell your father,” she adds, switching lanes smoothly.
“I know,” I say, stomach dropping.
“Soon,” she says. “He’s going to find out, and it’s better coming from you than from a medical chart or a gossip site or Jake accidentally saying the wrong thing in a meeting.”
“I want to talk to Jake first,” I say. “I want to know where his head is, what we’re even doing, before I drop, ‘Hey, I’m pregnant with your associate’s baby.’ I don’t want this to blow up Jake’s career.”
“That’s smart,” she says. She rises and starts gathering our plates. “And honestly? Of all the people in Los Angeles, I can’t believe you somehow managed to get pregnant by the guy who works for your father.”
Despite everything, my mouth curves. “That’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny,” she says, rinsing dishes.
“It’s a disaster,” I say.
“It’s life,” she counters, glancing at me over her shoulder. “Messy and inconvenient and rarely on schedule. And for what it’s worth, getting pregnant by a man who is stable, employed, and apparently very invested in doing the right thing is not the worst outcome.”
My phone buzzes on the table and saves me from responding to her.
Your order is on the way.
I tap the notification. The delivery note pops up first.
Just a few things to make sure you’re taking care of yourself. Hope it makes your day a little easier. – Jake
I scroll down and see the list of healthy items and my throat tightens.
“What is it?” Mom asks, drying her hands.
“Jake sent groceries to my house,” I say, staring at the screen.
Her smile is small but knowing. “That’s sweet.”
“It’s ridiculous,” I say, but my voice comes out softer than I intend.
Because the truth is, it doesn’t feel ridiculous. It feels like relief. Like for the first time in longer than I can remember, someone noticed I needed something and just did it. No strings. No expectations. Just groceries and a quiet promise that I’m not doing this alone.
I’ve spent so long keeping people at arm’s length, building walls so high I can’t see over them anymore, that I forgot what this feels like. Someone caring. Someone showing up.
It’s terrifying how good it feels.
I lock my phone and set it face down on the table before that warmth in my chest can spread any further.
“It’s thoughtful,” Mom corrects, watching me with those all-seeing eyes that miss nothing.
“I should get home,” I say, standing.
She pulls me into a hug, arms wrapping all the way around me, and for a second I let myself lean in, really lean, like I did when I was little and she was the whole structure holding my world up.
“You’re going to be okay,” she murmurs into my hair. “I promise.”
“I hope so,” I say before I can stop myself.
She pulls back just enough to look at me. “Hope isn’t a bad thing, you know. Even if you think it is.”
The word lands like a stone in my chest. Hope.
People love that word. They wear it on bracelets. Tattoo it on their ribs in curly script. Throw it around in speeches and Instagram captions like it’s some kind of magic spell.
Keep hoping.
Have hope.
Hope for the best.
The hope I know has never been soft or pretty like that.
The hope I know is what you cling to right before everything explodes and you’re left standing in the smoking crater wondering why you were stupid enough to believe this time would be different.
Hope has only ever been the prequel to disappointment.
The quiet drumbeat leading up to the fall.
Every time I’ve let myself want something out loud, every time I’ve let that fragile little spark light up in my chest, it’s ended in the same place. Devastation. Hope is not a lifeboat. It’s a trapdoor.
So no. I don’t want to feel it. Not about my career. Not about Jake. Not about a baby I did not plan for and am terrified to want.