Bonus Chapter
THE BIRTH OF COHEN ANDREW PARKER
I don’t know if it’s possible to feel this tired and this alive at the same time. The days move slowly, swollen like my ankles, but every minute still slips through my fingers faster than I can catch it. I’m nine months pregnant. Seventeen. And alone.
Well, alone except for the small, rhythmic kicks rolling beneath my skin, reminding me I won’t be alone much longer.
The baby moves again, stronger this time, like he’s impatient and knows his entrance is coming soon. I press a hand to my belly and whisper, “I know, little bug. I feel it too.”
I’m sitting on the edge of the twin bed in my childhood bedroom.
The same one with glow-in-the-dark stars still stuck to the ceiling from when I was ten.
There’s a dent in the wall from when I threw a shoe at my brother Reuben during an argument.
The posters are faded and curling at the edges.
Everything in here feels like a version of me that doesn’t fit anymore.
I outgrew this place the minute I found out I was pregnant.
The nursery I dream about doesn’t exist. There’s a pack-and-play in the corner, a thrifted glider chair that squeaks when I shift, and a box of diapers I bought with babysitting money. A single shelf with a few board books and hand-me-down onesies from when Lucie was little.
I try not to think about what’s missing. A crib. A baby monitor. A partner. A father.
I shift again, trying to relieve the pressure in my lower back. It’s useless. I’m always aching now, my body strains to carry a life that feels too big and too fragile at the same time.
And then, like always, my mind drifts to him.
Cole.
It’s been almost eight months since he was sentenced to 10 years in prison. Eight months since that courtroom, his jaw clenched, his eyes distant, mine already red-rimmed and wet. He didn’t look at me when they cuffed him. Not once.
I never got a goodbye. I don’t get to tell him about the baby.
At first, I tell myself I’ll wait. I’ll find the right words and write him a letter and slip the ultrasound photo in with it. I’ll tell him gently and give him time to process.
But then the first letter comes back: Return to sender.
Then the second.
Then I get the message through someone who hears it from someone else. He doesn’t want visitors. He doesn’t want letters. He doesn’t want anything from me.
That hurts. More than morning sickness. More than stretch marks and sore ribs and the way my feet barely fit in my shoes now. That rejection—silent and final—splits something inside me I can’t mend.
I stopped trying to tell him. Not because I’m angry, but because I’m done begging someone to care about something they don’t want. I have learned how to live without him. This baby deserves someone who shows up, not someone I have to chase down.
The baby kicks again, and I smile through the ache. “You’ve got me,” I whisper. “I promise I’ll always show up.”
Sometimes I still imagine what he would say if he knew. If I showed up at that prison gate with a rounded belly and nothing else but the truth.
Would he care? Would he regret it? Or would he do what he already does and turn away?
A wave of emotion crashes through me, and I bend forward, elbows on my knees, pressing my palms against my eyes. I hate crying. It makes me feel like I’m unraveling, like I’m asking for help I don’t expect anyone to give.
But tonight, I let it come. Quiet. Hot. Salty tears that leave tracks down my cheeks and soak the hem of the oversized hoodie I basically live in.
My mom knocks on the door once before pushing it open. She doesn’t say anything at first. She just sees me and walks in slowly, like she knows I need her but won’t ask.
She sits beside me on the bed and places her hand over mine. I can tell she wants to say something reassuring, something wise. She stays quiet instead. She just sits with me in the quiet.
That’s what I need right now. Not someone who fixes it. Someone who stays.
After a few minutes, she finally speaks. “You’re stronger than you think, Kenna.”
I shake my head. “I don’t feel strong.”
“That’s the trick,” she says softly. “You don’t feel it while you’re becoming it.”
I close my eyes and lean into her shoulder like I did when I was little. For a moment, I let myself believe she might be right. That I am becoming something stronger. Someone braver. A mother.
When she leaves the room, I reach into the drawer of my nightstand and pull out the tiny journal I’ve been writing in since I found out I’m pregnant. I flip to a fresh page and date it: June 10th. One month to go. Maybe less.
Then I write the words I can’t say out loud. Not yet. Not to anyone but the baby who’s almost here.
Dear Cohen,
You don’t know it yet, but you’ve already saved me. I don’t know what our life is going to look like. I don’t have all the answers. But I have you. And that’s enough.
I can’t wait to meet you. I love you already.
Love, Mom
I set the journal down and rub my belly again. My back throbs. My body feels stretched to its breaking point. But inside, something stronger than pain blooms. Hope. And it’s shaped exactly like the little boy I’m about to meet.
I’m just trying to put on socks. That’s it. All I want is two warm, stretchy socks on my swollen feet.
One sock is halfway on, the other still sitting on the edge of my bed, and I’m standing in the middle of my bedroom staring at the growing puddle on the floor like it betrays me.
No, not the floor. Me. My body. My water just breaks.
Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my GOD.
For five full seconds, I can’t move. Can’t breathe. The wetness keeps spreading down my legs, and all I can think is that this isn’t how it’s supposed to start.
I pictured contractions first. Gentle ones. Maybe some deep breathing. A bath. A slow, meaningful drive to the hospital with my mom at the wheel, calm and steady. The playlist I made last week playing in the background, something acoustic and soft.
Not this. Not standing half-socked with no bra on in the middle of my bedroom at 10:46 p.m. on a Thursday night, crying because my body just gives me the most undeniable signal that ready or not, this baby is coming.
The first pain hits before I can reach my phone. It’s not the worst pain I’ve ever felt, but it’s sharp and real and wraps around my lower back like a seatbelt made of fire.
I let out a little gasp and grab the edge of my dresser to keep from falling.
Another wave of panic hits, stronger than the contraction, because this is happening. Now. And I don’t have anyone to call. Not anyone who should be here, at least. Not him.
I swallow the lump in my throat and grab my phone with trembling fingers. My thumb hovers over his name in my contacts—Cole—but I don’t tap it. I haven’t tapped it in months. I deleted the messages weeks ago.
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to. And now it’s too late to change that.
My mom is the one I call instead, and thank God she answers on the first ring.
“Mom,” I say, my voice tight and shaky. “It’s time.”
Silence. Then a sharp inhale through the line. “Your water broke?”
I nod as if she can see me. “Just now. And the contractions are starting.”
“I’m coming right now. Get your bag. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
I hang up and look around the room like it’s a crime scene. The bag is half-packed, of course, because I’m seventeen and I procrastinate and part of me still doesn’t think this day will actually come. Or maybe I just don’t know what it looks like.
I grab what I can, forcing clothes and toiletries into the duffel, my mind racing with every what-if imaginable. I move on autopilot—pulling on sweatpants, tying my hair into a messy bun, grabbing my phone charger.
Another contraction hits, worse this time. I double over, breathing through it, tears pricking my eyes. It’s too early for this much pain, right? Isn’t labor supposed to start slowly?
Maybe this is how it goes when you’re seventeen and scared and alone and the world is crashing open inside you.
By the time I hear the car horn outside, I’m already at the front door with my bag in hand and my knees shaking.
My mom rushes up the porch steps like she’s been waiting her whole life for this moment. She doesn’t say anything. She takes one look at me, then wraps me in a hug I don’t know I need.
“Okay,” she whispers, steady and strong. “We’ve got this. Let’s go meet your baby.”
As we pull away from the curb, I glance back at the house—the same one I’ve lived in since I’m born. The same one I’m about to bring a new life home to.
It’s surreal. It’s terrifying. And it’s happening.
Halfway to the hospital, another contraction rolls through me, and I cry out before I can stop myself. My mom grips the steering wheel tighter. Panic flashes in her eyes, but she tries to stay calm for me.
“You’re doing great,” she says quickly, glancing over. “You’re okay. Just breathe. It’s okay.”
I try. I really do. But my heart is pounding, and my body feels like it’s short-circuiting.
The pain. The fear. The crushing realization that no one is going to be in that delivery room with me except my mom and strangers in scrubs.
No, father. No calming hand on mine. No whispered You’ve got this, babe.
Just me. And maybe that has to be enough.
We reach the hospital, and everything speeds up. Nurses. Wheelchairs. Paperwork. Beeping monitors and a gown I can’t get on fast enough. My mom stays beside me, holding my hand and helping me breathe. Her voice keeps me tethered while my body floats inside a storm I can’t control.
They hook me up to machines, check me, prod me, start an IV. My legs shake so hard I can’t stop them.
Then the nurse says it. “You’re at five centimeters already. You’re progressing quickly, Kenna.”
Quickly. Too quickly.
My eyes fill with tears again.
This is it. The point of no return.
Deep inside, where I still feel seventeen and scared and not ready, a voice whispers, You’re about to become someone’s mother.