Chapter 35 Sara
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Sara
I regret it before I even take off my coat.
There’s a circle of yoga mats laid out in pastel symmetry, a soft instrumental playlist wafting from a Bluetooth speaker in the corner, and pairs.
So many pairs. Couples sitting cross-legged, palms resting on rounded bellies, faces arranged in practiced anticipation.
Some are rubbing backs. Some are whispering affirmations. One guy is spoon feeding his partner strawberries like this is a fertility-themed Bridgerton spin-off.
And then there’s me.
Solo. Hood up. Hoodie one size too large and hair tucked under a baseball cap as if I’m auditioning for the role of “anonymous pregnant woman number two” in a very low-budget drama.
I hover near the edge of the mat circle, wondering how fast I can fake a phone call and vanish.
Maybe I should.
I could say I forgot my water bottle. I could say I’m contagious. I could say the triplets are unionizing and refusing to attend any prenatal events without representation.
But then the instructor clocks me.
“Welcome!” she chirps in the bright, borderline evangelical tone of someone who’s made peace with kale and self-actualization. “Come in, make yourself comfortable!”
I do not feel comfortable.
I might as well be an exposed nerve.
Still, I nod, make a vague gesture toward an empty mat near the back, and lower myself with the grace of a collapsing futon.
My body is not built for stealth these days. Or speed. Or subtlety.
The triplets make their presence known in everything I do, from the way I breathe to the way I sit to the way I blink too hard and nearly cry.
The instructor introduces herself as Camber—of course she’s named Camber—and explains that today’s focus will be on support systems.
Excellent.
We start with introductions. Names, due dates, birth plans, partner insights.
Everyone has one. A partner, I mean. A glowing, eager-eyed co-creator of life.
There’s an accountant named Ben who’s brought an actual binder. A woman named Tessa whose wife has made them matching “Labor Squad” shirts. A high school teacher named Raj who says, “Whatever she needs, I’m there,” while his spouse beams as if she invented him.
When it’s my turn, I pause.
“I’m Sara,” I say. “Due… in four-and-a-half months’ time…”
“Do you have a partner joining you?” Camber asks gently.
I lie. “He had a work conflict.”
A pause. Then that soft, knowing nod. The kind that isn’t judgmental, not exactly, but deeply aware. She smiles with extra warmth, the way people do when they think you’re alone but bravely soldiering on.
“Well, we’re so glad you’re here,” she says, and somehow makes “you’re” sound like “bless your heart.”
Throughout the session, she keeps glancing my way every time she says “support.” It’s subtle, but not that subtle.
I can feel the eyes of the room darting over, trying to figure out which sob story I am. Widow? Divorcee? Surrogate for a couple who ghosted?
They don’t ask, but their silence is louder than any question.
We transition into breathwork. Camber dims the lights and encourages us to find a rhythm with our partner’s breath. She demonstrates with her husband, who’s joined for the demo.
He’s very tall, very calm, and has the dead eyes of a man who has attended seventeen of these classes and seen things he can’t unsee.
Everyone turns inward. Matching inhales. Gentle exhales.
I breathe alone.
Which I’ve done for most of my adult life, honestly, so this shouldn’t sting as much as it does. Maybe because this isn’t just adult life anymore.
It’s motherhood. It’s the beginning of something seismic and brutal and beautiful. And here I am, sitting in a room full of affirmation cards and partner poses, pretending I haven’t already started counting down the exits.
My eyes sting. I press my fingertips into the corners as if I’m fixing eyeliner instead of dignity.
Camber dims the lights further and puts on an acoustic cover of “Here Comes the Sun.”
I want to scream.
Instead, I sit through the next twenty minutes, half-listening to labor position tips and pelvic floor metaphors that make me want to crawl into the earth.
I try not to look at the other women, their soft smiles and whispered check-ins. I tell myself it’s fine. I tell myself this is brave. Independent. Empowered.
But it doesn’t feel that way.
It feels lonely.
Not because I need someone to rub my back or whisper mantras in my ear. Not because I believe Nick should’ve been here, or would’ve been if I’d told him. It’s not about him.
It’s about me.
The instructor is demoing counter-pressure techniques on a bolster when the door swings open with an audible thud. Everyone turns.
He’s flushed, slightly out of breath, and wearing the full armor of a three-piece suit—minus the jacket, which he’s holding in one hand—with his tie slightly askew.
The sleeves of his shirt are rolled to the forearms, and he’s got the look of a man who ran here. Literally. Through traffic. Possibly over small furniture.
Nick.
His eyes scan the room, find me instantly, and soften so quickly I feel it in my chest.
Without hesitation, he crosses the floor, drops to one knee beside me, and says, low and steady, “Sorry I’m late. What did I miss?”
I blink. Actually blink, because for a second I think I’ve conjured him.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. The instructor blinks too. Stunned, though she tries to hide it behind her practiced glow.
Around us, the room shifts. Not in a dramatic gasp sort of way. But in that subtle, rippling recognition of a story realigning itself.
Nick looks… wrecked. In the way only someone who’s fought through Manhattan congestion in designer shoes can look.
There’s a sheen of sweat at his collar, a small smudge of something on his shirt cuff, and not a single part of him that seems to care.
He’s here.
With me.
And somehow, without needing to say more than a sentence, he’s placed himself directly between me and the storm inside my chest.
I find my voice, barely. “How did you…?”
“Tina,” he says. “Apparently she has very strong feelings about prenatal education.”
That earns a light laugh from someone across the room. I glance up and see it. The shift. The recalibration. Camber, bless her over-enunciated optimism, gives a small nod, gracious in her surprise.
“Well, welcome,” she says, addressing Nick. “We were just discussing pressure points and support positioning. Would you mind sitting behind her?”
He doesn’t answer me. He just moves and settles onto the mat behind me, one knee brushing my hip, steady hands adjusting to support my back like he’s done it a hundred times.
His mouth is near my ear. “You okay?”
I nod. Or try to. I feel warm. Shaky. Not from nerves, not now, but from the quiet, disarming sense of being seen.
He didn’t need to come. I hadn’t told him. I hadn’t even planned to. And yet here he is, suit and all, body folding into the space beside mine as if it was always meant to be here.
I don’t speak. I don’t trust my voice not to crack.
We resume the session. Camber resumes her cheerful instruction. This time, when we’re told to sync our breath, I feel Nick’s chest rise behind me, calm and measured, anchoring mine.
His hands rest carefully at my lower back, not possessive, just present. A silent promise. One I don’t have to ask for.
When the class ends, and the room starts gathering their things, I stay seated for a beat longer. Just breathing. Just… feeling.
Nick’s hand slides into mine.
And I realize something I didn’t know I needed to learn.
I’m not doing this alone.
Not anymore.