Chapter 3
Three
Addie
My body has stopped pretending everything is normal.
It started small—a heaviness in the mornings, fatigue that sleep didn’t fix.
Now, coffee tastes wrong. Food turns my stomach one minute and disappears too quickly the next.
I tell myself I caught a bug. When it doesn’t go away, I assume it’s stress—money, long days, the constant math of getting by.
This morning I lie in bed, hoping somehow this will pass. Not sure how I can face the day. Then I start to think about my period. When was my last cycle?
I go back and count. I’m almost three weeks late. The start-of-summer party was five weeks ago.
I count again. Then once more, slower, like the numbers might rearrange themselves if I give them time. My cycle has never been precise. I’ve skipped before. Bodies misfire under pressure, and I’ve been working long hours for my gallery show.
Still, the thought filters into my gut and refuses to move.
My phone rings, and I track it down on the nightstand.
“Are you free for lunch today?” Emma asks without even a hello when I answer.
Food doesn’t sound so good. “I don’t know. I’m not feeling great. Did last night’s Thai food sit weird with you?”
“Nope.”
I shut my eyes. It can’t be. “My period is late,” I whisper into the phone, almost hoping she doesn’t hear me.
“No way.” I hear a door close on her end. “Do you think you’re pregnant?”
“Maybe,” I hedge. The word feels safer than yes.
“I thought you used a condom?”
“We did. I watched him roll it on.” Still lying flat, I look out my window at the lake in the far distance. “I’m probably just late. I’m stressed about this show. I need to sell some work. This is going to determine whether I’m eating ramen until Christmas or getting vegetables and protein.”
She scoffs. “Your work is beautiful. No one else captures the valley like you do. You’re going to do great.”
“You’re my best friend. I pay you to say that.”
“I’m due for a raise.”
“Put it on my tab.”
We both giggle.
“Look, I’ll stop by the drugstore and be right over,” she tells me. “Then you can stop wondering.”
She’s hung up before I can tell her it would be a waste of time and money.
Not even twenty minutes later, Emma lets herself into my apartment with the key I gave her. She’s holding a paper bag and wearing a look that tells me she’s already processed the thought I’ve been avoiding. At least I’m out of bed now.
She doesn’t ask questions or dramatize things. She sets the bag on the bathroom counter and leans back like this is an ordinary errand.
“We’ll just check,” she says. “Then you don’t have to keep circling it.”
My hands shake as I pull the test out. The bathroom feels too small. Too bright. I sit on the edge of the tub and stare at the instructions, reading and rereading.
Then, with Emma waiting in the hall, I follow them. Mostly. I’m not sure I do it right. I pee on my hand in the process and wash it quickly, heart racing, everything blurring together.
We wait.
I can’t bring myself to look. One pink line means no. Two means my life tilts onto a different track entirely.
I pace. I sit. I stand again. My stomach rolls sharply, and I press my palm there. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe this is all anxiety, coincidence, and timing lining up wrong.
When I finally look, there are two pink lines.
Unmistakable.
My breath leaves me all at once. “No,” I say, even though there’s nothing to argue with. “Maybe it’s because it’s not morning. I’ve had coffee. Breakfast. Doesn’t it have to be morning?”
Emma takes the test from my hand and studies it. “It doesn’t matter,” she says. “That’s just for early detection. This is positive.”
I’m pregnant.
The word feels misplaced, meant for someone else. Someone stable. Someone with savings and a plan.
“I can barely feed myself,” I say, panic rising now. “I never know where rent is coming from. I don’t even know how I’m going to take care of myself, never mind another human being.”
Emma steps closer and grips my shoulders. “Look at me.”
I do.
“You’re going to be fine,” she says. “You don’t have to solve your whole life today. And I’m going to be a rockin’ aunt.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“I know.” She pulls me into a tight hug, and the contact steadies me. “That’s okay. You’ll figure it out.”
I breathe with her. Once. Then again, slower. I’m scared and overwhelmed and unprepared in ways I don’t have language for yet. Still, I let myself believe her, just enough to keep the panic from taking over.
Then we sit for a while, her hand wrapped around mine. I love that she doesn’t fill the silence. She knows my mind is racing.
“You need to get back to work,” I finally tell her.
“I’m the boss. I can come and go as I please.”
“Go. My baby needs your rocket if she’s going to live on Mars one day.”
“Are you sure?”
I nod. I’m not, but knowing she would stay warms me to my core. “I think I’m going to go to my studio and work.”
Emma smiles. “I love that.”
After she leaves, I open my laptop and book an appointment online with my doctor. Thankfully, for something like this, there’s one open on Monday, so I’ll just need to manage the weekend. Clicking confirm feels like choosing motion over fear. If I stand still, I think this might swallow me whole.
When I arrive on Monday morning, nothing about Dr. Hutchinson’s office has changed. He’s been my doctor since the day I was born, and the place has never been updated. Beige walls. Valley photos. Familiar quiet. I sit on the exam table with my hands folded and feel oddly calm.
In Canada, if your pregnancy is low risk, your family doctor handles your prenatal care. You see your GP for regular appointments and only get referred to an obstetrician if something needs closer monitoring. When it’s time, you deliver at the hospital with the on-call team.
The doctor smiles when he comes in. “Feels a bit full circle.”
“It does?”
“I remember all four of your mom’s pregnancies. She was thrilled when she found out you were a girl. Ready from the minute she knew. Your mother was impatient.”
I nod. That tracks.
He checks my blood pressure and weight. “We’ll find out how far along you are after the ultrasound.”
“Oh, I know exactly when I got pregnant. It was the night of the start-of-summer party.”
“Okay.” He pulls out a card. “Your due date will be around the end of February.”
“Don’t you want to check whether I’m actually pregnant?” I ask. “Maybe the home test was wrong.”
“When they’re wrong, it’s usually a false negative,” he says gently. “Home tests are accurate.”
I sigh. “I was hoping you’d tell me I wasn’t pregnant.”
“What about the father?” he asks.
“It was a one-time thing.” The words feel thin. Temporary. Like I’ll be repeating them for years.
He nods. “We have options—”
“I’m keeping the baby.”
“Okay,” he says.
I breathe.
“This will likely be easy,” he continues. “Your mother had easy pregnancies.”
He sets me up with bloodwork and prenatal vitamins, walks me through timelines, and hands me paperwork. “Let’s have you back in a month.”
“Okay.”
By the time I reach my car, I’m steady. The world hasn’t much changed. Maybe I can do this. Of course, I can do this. I sit for a moment with my hands on the steering wheel, letting the truth sink in.
Then I start the engine. I have work to do.