Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
The ultrasound photo has been on my fridge for a week now, held up by the magnet from our honeymoon in Florida. Every morning, I stare at it while my ginger tea steeps. Sometimes I catch myself touching it, tracing the tiny outline of our baby with my finger.
Jeremy’s been texting more since the appointment. Little things, like asking if I’m eating enough or sending links to pregnancy websites. This morning it was a photo of a bag of oranges:
Jeremy
Read this helps with morning sickness. Want me to drop some by?
It’s strange how normal it feels, this new version of us. Not quite together, not quite apart. Just… connected. Always connected now.
I try Lilly’s number again while I wait for my tea to cool. Straight to voicemail, like every other time this week.
“Hey, Lil. I miss you. I went to my first doctor’s appointment yesterday and… well, I wish you’d been there. Or at least answering your phone. Please call me back?”
My voice cracks at the end. Two weeks of silence. Not like her at all. I’ve driven by her house twice, but her car’s never there. Even stopped by the boutique where she works, only to be told she’s taken some personal time.
The doorbell interrupts my thoughts. Jeremy stands on the porch with a paper bag of oranges, looking uncertain.
“I was in the neighborhood,” he says, which we both know is a lie–his work site is across town. “Thought you might want these.”
“Thanks.” I step aside to let him in. “Want some tea?”
He hesitates for just a moment before nodding. We move around the kitchen in a familiar dance, him getting mugs while I pour the tea. Like muscle memory–five years of marriage doesn’t just disappear.
“Crazy to know we have a little bean coming,” he asks, noticing the ultrasound on the fridge.
“Yeah. I can make you a copy today.”
“I’d like that.” He sips his tea. “Have you told anyone yet?”
I shake my head. “Just Lilly. Well, sort of. When you overheard.” I peel an orange, focusing on keeping the rind in one piece. “Have you?”
“No.” He watches me separate the orange segments. “Feels weird, keeping it from everyone. But also…”
“Like it’s just ours right now?”
He nods. We sit at the kitchen table in silence, not really much to say since the divorce.
All there really is to talk about right now is our baby.
The morning passes quietly until his phone buzzes. “Work,” he says, standing. “I should go.”
I walk him to the door. At the threshold, he turns.
“Let me know when the next appointment is?”
I nod. “Of course.”
After he leaves, I try Lilly one more time. Still voicemail. This time I don’t leave a message.
The rest of the day passes slowly. I research nursery colors, make lists of things we’ll need. Around sunset, my phone buzzes with another text from Jeremy:
Jeremy
How are you feeling? Did the oranges help?
I stare at the message for a long time. There’s something so intimate about his concern, despite everything.
Me
A little. Thanks.
Jeremy
Good. Get some rest.
I curl up on the couch with my phone, scrolling through old photos of Lilly and me. Birthday parties, beach trips, my wedding day. Her smile was bright and constant through every picture.
“Where are you?” I whisper to her image. “What’s going on?”
Outside, a car door slams, and for a moment my heart leaps. But it’s just the neighbors. My house stays quiet, my phone stays silent, and I’m left with nothing but questions and the faint taste of oranges on my tongue.
Later, in bed, I find myself on Facebook, looking at Lilly’s profile. Her last post was two weeks ago–a photo of coffee and a book, nothing unusual. No clues about why she’s disappeared.
I rest my hand on my stomach, taking comfort in this new constant in my life.
“Your aunt Lilly would be so excited about you,” I tell my belly. “If she’d just answer her damn phone.”
It’s strange how time works–how moments that once seemed impossible slowly become your new normal. Like Jeremy’s work boots by the front door every morning, or his toothbrush back in the bathroom holder. Not in its old spot, but in the spare holder I bought at Target last week. Little boundaries, invisible lines, we both respect.
Three weeks can change everything.
He started sleeping on the couch after that particularly bad Tuesday when I couldn’t stop throwing up. “Just to help,” he’d said, looking uncertain with his pillow tucked under his arm. Now it’s become our routine. Every morning, he folds the blanket neatly over the back of the couch before heading to work. Every evening, he unfolds it again, settling in for another night of being my on-call morning sickness support.
The garbage cans are always lined with fresh bags. The ginger ale in the fridge never runs low. When I stumble to the bathroom at 3 AM, I often find him already awake, ready with a cold washcloth and quiet support. We don’t talk about how he seems to sense when I’m about to be sick before I do. About how easily we’ve fallen back into orbiting each other’s lives.
Sometimes I catch him staring at the ultrasound photo on the fridge, his expression soft in a way that makes my heart ache. Sometimes he catches me watching him stare, and we both look away quickly, pretending we don’t notice how domestic this all feels.
We haven’t told his parents yet. Haven’t told anyone, really. It’s like we’re living in this bubble where only three people exist–him, me, and this tiny raspberry-sized person we made. The pregnancy books pile up on the coffee table–his medical ones mixing with my more holistic guides. We’re learning this dance together, this careful choreography of co-parenting while divorced. Of building something new from the ashes of what we lost.
Tonight, like every night lately, I listen to him settling on the couch below my bedroom. The familiar creek of springs, the soft rustle of blankets. Close enough to help if I need him, far enough to remember why he’s not beside me instead.
My hand rests on my still-flat stomach, and I wonder if the baby can sense how complicated this all is. If they know that their parents are trying so hard to get this right, even if we got so much wrong before.
We’re not together. We’re not apart. We’re just… here. In this space between what was and what will be. Taking it one day at a time, one craving at a time, one shared smile over a raspberry-sized revelation at a time.
And somehow, it works. For now, it works.