Breaking Us

Chapter One

Tessa finally sank into a chair, her legs aching after the blur of the morning.

She had packed lunches, signed permission slips, braided Chrissy's hair, found Michael's missing shoes, and coaxed Luke into eating more than two bites of toast. Now the aftermath was scattered around her--Luke's backpack forgotten by the back door, Chrissy's hairbrush abandoned beside the cereal box, Michael's jacket hanging crooked on a chair.

The rush was over, but it had left its debris—and a silence that felt heavier than the house itself.

Mark had left before she was even out of bed. She'd heard the low murmur of his voice in the hallway — a quick phone call, probably to his office — and then the click of the front door. No kiss, no "Have a good day." Not anymore.

She stared into her coffee, trying to remember the last time they'd really talked about something that wasn't bills, school schedules, or what time he'd be home.

Even the nights when he did come home before the kids were asleep, he seemed half somewhere else, eyes on his phone or still carrying the day's work in his shoulders.

She knew that work had been stressful for him lately, that there was a big project that had been keeping him late. She loved him with all her heart, and knew he loved her too. They would get through this, as they had so many other obstacles. She felt so lucky to have built this life together.

Her mind drifted back to seventeen, to a sticky July night when she and Mark had sat on the hood of his beat-up Ford in the empty school parking lot, their fingers tangled, the stars sharp above them.

He'd told her then — with that lopsided grin that used to undo her completely — that someday, they'd get married.

"Not right away," he'd said. "We'll finish school, travel a little, figure out what we want to be.

But it'll always be you, Tessa. Always."

They hadn't planned on the two pink lines that showed up a year later.

She was barely eighteen, he'd just turned nineteen, and suddenly "someday" became a courthouse wedding and a rented one-bedroom apartment.

He'd worked for his dad's construction company by day, taken night classes in architecture, and come home to her falling asleep on the couch with Michael in her arms. Those early years had been bone-tired and tight-budgeted, but also full of stolen kisses in the kitchen, whispered jokes in the dark, and a kind of fierce love that made her sure they could survive anything.

They had survived a lot. Three kids. His long hours at the firm.

Her putting her dreams on hold to raise their family.

She'd told herself it was temporary — that when Luke started school, she'd finally have time to take fashion design classes.

She could see it so clearly: walking into a classroom with her sketchbook under her arm, learning the language of color and style.

But Luke had started kindergarten last month, and she was still folding laundry at ten p.m., still volunteering for class field trips, still too tired to think about anything more than getting through the day.

And then, two weeks ago, the nausea had started. She'd blamed it on bad takeout until she'd found herself standing in the pharmacy aisle, hand hovering over a pregnancy test like she was eighteen again.

The test now sat on the counter beside her coffee cup — plastic and small and impossible to ignore. Positive.

Her hand moved almost without thought to her stomach.

She'd only known for a few days, but she already loved the tiny life growing inside her.

She could picture their baby's face, hear the gurgle of newborn laughter.

But the weight of it pressed down too — the certain knowledge that design school would have to wait again, that the long nights and endless diapers would start over.

She hadn't told Mark. She kept waiting for the right moment, but lately there were no moments with him — just passing each other like neighbors in the same house—maybe a sweet note tucked into his briefcase along with a promise of a much-needed weekend getaway would be just what they needed. She reached for a pen and stationery.