Chapter 25 Sara
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Sara
I’m not at work today.
Because I have somewhere else to be.
And since my boss walked away from me, I’m going to assume that he doesn’t care. But as I sit in the waiting room, hands folded over my stomach, all I can think about is how empty the seat beside me is.
The walls are a soft blush pink, an intentional effort to soften the space. Calmness hangs in the air. A basket of magazines sits nearby, a water cooler hums quietly, and a mural of a stork cutting through clouds stretches across the far wall.
It should be comforting. But it’s not.
Because all around me are couples.
A woman with her head on her husband’s shoulder, both of them smiling over the ultrasound photo in her hands.
A man rubbing his partner’s back while she sips ginger tea, his voice low and soothing in her ear.
A pair of first-time parents across from me whispering excitedly about gender reveals and nursery colors.
And me?
I’m sitting alone.
In Nick’s hoodie.
Staring at the clock and trying not to throw up from a cocktail of nerves and morning sickness.
I shift in my seat and press a palm to my belly. There’s barely anything there yet, just a whisper of change, a promise of what’s coming. But already I’m carrying a weight no one else can see.
No one but me.
I don’t let the tears fall. I can’t. Not here. Not surrounded by joy, softness, and the hum of quiet, hopeful beginnings. I’m a fragile crack in stained glass, one sharp sound away from breaking apart.
I keep hearing his voice in my head. “You should have told me.”
And mine: “I thought you’d run.”
And then the silence.
The door slamming behind him.
The cold space he left behind on my couch.
A nurse steps out from behind the reception desk. “Sara Brooks?”
I stand, knees trembling just a little, and follow her back through the hall.
The room is small and sterile, but the doctor is kind. She talks me through everything, what to expect, how far along I am, the basics of prenatal care. Her voice is warm, her smile genuine.
But I can barely focus.
This should be a milestone. A moment I carry with me forever.
Instead, it’s stolen.
Someone should be here beside me, holding my hand, asking questions, whispering that everything will be okay.
But he’s not.
And I’m starting to wonder if he ever will be.
The doctor dims the lights, and the soft hum of the machine fills the silence. The gel is cold against my skin, making me flinch, but then I hear it…
The heartbeat.
Fast. Fluttery. Alive.
I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until I hear it again. And then I exhale, my eyes stinging.
“There we go,” the doctor murmurs, smiling as she turns the monitor toward me. “That’s your baby.”
My baby.
My heart twists in my chest, a strange, overwhelming ache I wasn’t ready for. I press a hand to my mouth as the tiny shape flickers on the screen.
It doesn’t even look like a baby yet, not really, just a small, blinking bean of light. But it’s there.
Inside me.
Alive.
I think of my mom. Of the quiet strength she wore every day. Of the years she spent doing this alone. And suddenly, I get it.
The sacrifice. The courage. The love.
A wave crashes over me. Hot, silent tears trace their way down my cheeks before I even realize I’m crying. The doctor says nothing, just offers a tissue with a gentle smile, as if she’s witnessed this moment countless times before.
“I know it’s a lot,” she says gently.
I nod, wiping my face. “It’s just… real now.”
She smiles again and moves the wand slightly, frowning in concentration. “Let’s get a couple more measurements…”
I watch the screen, my breathing slowly returning to normal. For the first time in days, something inside me settles. It’s not peace, exactly. But it’s something close.
Until she stills.
Her brow furrows. She moves the wand again.
“Hmm.”
My stomach clenches. “Is something wrong?”
“No, not wrong,” she says quickly, her voice still calm but more alert now. “Just… unexpected.”
She clicks something on the monitor. Shifts the angle again. Tilts her head.
My skin prickles.
“I’m just going to take a closer look,” she says. “Sometimes the images overlap this early and… oh. Oh, wow.”
“What?” I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper.
She looks at me, then back at the screen. “Well… it looks like you’re not just carrying one baby.”
The air leaves my lungs. “What?”
“There’s another heartbeat,” she says. “And… a third.”
My whole body goes still.
“I’m sorry… did you just say three?”
She nods, her voice still calm, as if she’s delivering weather updates and not detonating my entire reality. “Yes. I’m seeing three separate heartbeats. You’re carrying triplets.”
Triplets.
Triplets.
I stare at her. At the monitor. The pulsing, blinking dots of light blur and distort, no longer signals of hope but noise scrambling my thoughts.
“Triplets,” I say again, the word slipping from my lips, barely even mine.
She nods, pulling the wand away and gently wiping my stomach. “It’s rare, but not unheard of. They look healthy so far, and we’ll monitor everything very closely from here. We’ll talk about high-risk factors and what to expect, but right now…”
I don’t hear the rest.
My pulse hammers in my ears. Vision narrows to a pinpoint. I grip the crumpled edge of the exam table, anchoring myself to a world that might as well be slipping away.
Three babies.
Three.
I’m twenty-six. Possibly unemployed. Freshly heartbroken. I live in a one-bedroom apartment with a dog who eats shoes and a closet that still smells of Nick.
And I’m going to have triplets?
I don’t remember leaving the room.
Not really.
The nurse presses pamphlets into my hands. The doctor murmurs something about the next appointment. I nod, maybe even smile… I’m not sure. Words slip away before I catch them. I’m moving through thick water, every gesture heavy, awkward, as if my body is still trying to grasp what just happened.
Triplets.
I step outside the clinic into the harsh glare of late-morning sun. It crashes over me—too bright, too loud, while the world spins on, oblivious to how everything inside me just shattered.
Triplets.
The sidewalk blurs.
My knees give out and I collapse onto the nearest bench, barely catching myself. The ultrasound photos crinkle in my fist, my anchor, my proof. My other hand trembles uselessly in my lap.
Three blips.
Not just shadows or smudges. Heartbeats.
Lives.
I stare down at them until my vision swirls. And then I break.
The sob punches out of me before I can stop it, loud and ugly and impossible to control. I curl forward, pressing my forearms to my thighs, my head hanging between my knees as the weight of it all comes crashing down on me.
I can’t do this.
Oh my god.
I can’t do this.
Not alone.
Not like this.
One baby felt impossible enough… managing the money, the doctor’s appointments, the fatigue, the fear. But three?
That’s diapers and cribs and daycare times three. That’s triple the bottles, triple the cost, triple the crying, triple the exhaustion. I don’t even own a car.
I can’t do this.
My shoulders shake, and I don’t care who sees me now. I’m crying in public, and let them stare. Let them judge.
Because I am terrified.
Not just of the physical reality of carrying three babies. Not just of the logistics. But of the emotional mountain ahead. The endless uncertainty.
Nick.
What if he doesn’t come back?
What if this, us, is already over?
What if I’m doing this alone?
I think about my mom again. How strong she was. How she never let me see how hard it must have been.
I used to believe that strength meant doing everything by yourself. That being independent meant never needing anyone.
But now?
Now I know better.
Because I need help. I need support. I need someone.
I need him.
And for the first time, I let myself admit it fully—not just in my heart, not in the privacy of my apartment, but out loud, here in the real world, in the aftermath of the biggest news of my life.
“I can’t do this alone.”
My voice cracks. No one hears. Or maybe someone does, I don’t know. I don’t care.
I press a hand to my stomach, to the faint swell that’s only just beginning, and close my eyes.
I need to figure out what comes next. How to breathe through this.
How to tell him.
Because ready or not… this is real.
And I’m not the only one who needs him anymore.