Chapter 5
Five
Addie
I look down and focus on eating my brick-sized burrito like it’s my job.
Because it absolutely is, though not for pleasure or even for hunger.
This is timing and math. If I eat a real lunch and keep it down long enough, the scale at my four-month checkup, which is just over an hour from now, won’t raise concerns.
So long as I do this right, there won’t be looks exchanged or questions asked about my lack of weight gain.
I take a bite of burrito and chew slowly, paying attention to my breathing instead of the taste. My stomach tightens, hesitates, and then settles. I wait a beat before taking another bite.
I should be beyond the morning-sickness routine, but I’m not.
Dr. Hutchinson told me last month that it’s a good sign because my body is reacting to the increasing hCG.
I only want to make it through the night without having to go to the bathroom and get past the morning sickness that still feels entitled to present itself any time of day.
Across the table, Emma watches me with open suspicion.
“This is ridiculous,” she says, eyeing my plate. “You know that, right?”
“Probably,” I say. “But it works.”
She lets out a short laugh. “There are drugs for morning sickness.”
“I know that, but I’m trying hard not to take anything I don’t need.”
“You need to keep food down.”
“I do,” I assure her.
“This much work on that project is not normal.”
“I’m aware.”
She shakes her head, smiling despite herself. “You make it sound like you’re training for something.”
“In a way, I am.”
I don’t elaborate, and Emma doesn’t push. That’s part of why this works, why she’s my best friend.
I finish the burrito without rushing or celebrating. When I set the wrapper aside, I sit back and wait, letting my body decide if it’s going to object.
So far so good. But it usually takes some time before I get to the re-tasting. And if I’m lucky, I’m at the end of this and I won’t. I release a breath.
“You okay?” Emma asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m good.”
It’s not the whole truth, but it’s true enough. I’ve figured out how to manage this part. It’s not elegant. But it’s under control.
For now.
Because if anything slips—weight, numbers, concern—I worry this baby could stop being mine.
Emma lifts her drink in a mock toast. “To absurd systems and you somehow beating them.”
I clink my glass against hers. “I’ll take the win.”
Emma waits until I’ve settled back in my chair before she leans forward, resting her elbows on the table.
“So,” she says, trying—and failing—to sound casual. “Can I talk about Mark again?”
I smile. “Please! I have to live the single life vicariously through you.”
She laughs, a little sheepish. “You’re single.”
“But what guy wants to date a woman who’s pregnant with some other guy’s baby?”
She begins to object, but I hold up my hand. “Let me rephrase. What normal guy?”
“I think you’re being too hard on men.”
“Tell me more about Mark.”
She sighs. “I just wish he lived closer.”
“But you said he worked from home.”
“He does, but he lives outside of Black Bear near the ski slopes.”
“You like to ski, and you own your own company.”
“I know, and I really like him. But is there a future with him when he lives so far away?”
I reach across the table. “Rather than focus on the future, focus on the now. If it’s meant to be, you’ll figure it out.”
“It’s actually kind of nice,” she says. “It’s easy to get physical quickly, but the distance slows us down, so we’re getting to know one another.”
I nod.
“He still works out of Vancouver,” she continues. “Foreign exchange. He buys and sells currencies for clients.”
“That sounds complicated.”
“It is. But he explains it like it isn’t.” She smiles at the table, and then catches herself and looks back up at me. “He’s smart. Steady. Not flashy.”
The word steady lingers.
“I didn’t think I’d care about that,” she admits. “But I do.”
I nod. I can see it in the way she talks, the way her attention stays focused even when the café noise swells around us. This isn’t infatuation spilling over. It’s something more.
“I’m happy for you,” I tell her.
She reaches for her drink, still smiling. “I kind of am too. Which is new.”
There’s an ease to her happiness. It isn’t complicated or calculated. It moves forward on its own. I sit with that for a moment, the contrast between our lives gentle but unmistakable.
“I like this for you.”
She meets my eyes. “That means a lot.”
We fall into a comfortable silence after that. Emma’s personal life is opening outward. Mine is folding in, careful and contained.
The bell over the door chimes, and as I look up, my body reacts before my mind does. My shoulders tense. My breath goes shallow. I know that posture and her walk.
My mother stands just inside the entrance now. She hasn’t seen me, but I’ll have to walk past her to leave. Crap.
I look at Emma and pretend I don’t see her while I say a silent prayer that she doesn’t see me. But it doesn’t matter. Within moments, my mother locks in and starts toward our table, her expression already set.
The tension hits like a warning flare in my chest.
Emma notices my shift before my mother reaches us. She stills, angling toward me without saying a word, present and ready but unobtrusive. “You’ve got this,” she murmurs.
My mother stops at the table. She doesn’t sit. “What a nice surprise,” she says.
“Hi, Mom.”
She steps close. “I hear you’re pregnant,” she says just above a whisper. “You told your brother and sisters, but you didn’t tell me.”
I meet her gaze.
“Yes,” I confirm. “I’m pregnant. I didn’t tell them that long ago, and I was going to tell you when I was ready…
” I just wasn’t sure when that was going to be.
“But yes, I’m four months along now, so I’m focused on preparing to be a good mother.
” I don’t explain or apologize. I offer nothing beyond the truth.
Emma stays silent, hands around her cup, eyes down but attention sharp. She doesn’t disappear. She just gives the moment the space it demands.
My mother’s jaw tightens, the crack already visible beneath her composure. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she demands. “I would’ve been there for you.”
“When was the last time we talked?”
“I called you on your birthday.”
I nod because she did leave me a message in April—five months ago. “When I moved out,” I remind her, keeping my voice even, “you chose Evie.”
She’s heard this from me for almost a decade now.
My mother reacts immediately. “I did not choose Evie.”
“You stayed,” I say. It’s not an accusation. It’s a fact. “You let her railroad your children. Sera and Josie are a mess. Alaric left a thriving therapy practice to support them. Only Ginny and I have managed to get out.”
“Get out? We’re not the mob.” Her mouth tightens. “I stayed because someone had to. Being close to Evie means I can protect you. All of you. From the inside.”
I shake my head. Nobody can stop Evie. I feel the slip before I can stop it. A tightening behind my eyes. A heat in my throat. I blink once, and then again, steadying myself.
“I didn’t choose her,” Mom says again, softer now. “I chose my children.”
She gestures between us, urgency creeping into her voice. “If I’m there, I can head things off before they become problems. Like this. Like your pregnancy. I can run interference so she doesn’t bother you.”
“Mom, let me be clear. I don’t want you to talk to Evie about my pregnancy. Do you understand?”
“She’ll help you,” she justifies. “If you just let her…”
Mom continues talking, but I close my eyes, and my heart sinks. Once Evie gets involved, it means lawyers, paperwork, phone calls... She’ll try to manage this even though it has nothing to do with her.
I hear what Mom’s saying. I understand her strategy. I just don’t agree with it. But now, that doesn’t matter. I let her finish without interrupting. When she’s done, the silence stretches.
“I know how Evie works,” I say finally. “No matter what anyone does, she always goes after what she wants.”
“You don’t have to do this alone,” my mother says. “Not with a baby involved. Evie can help. She has resources, and she’ll get you what you need.”
There’s the opening she’s been angling toward. But Evie’s help has always come with ugly strings.
“No thank you,” I say. “I’m not interested. Make sure she hears that.”
She blinks. “Addie—”
“I won’t take anything from her,” I say. “I don’t want her money, and I certainly don’t want her help.”
Mom’s face tightens, color rising along her cheekbones. “That’s not realistic. Babies are expensive. You don’t have a regular income. You need her.”
“I don’t need anything from her. I’m making things work for me and my baby. That’s what looking out for your child means.”
She exhales sharply. “It’s not that easy. You can’t raise a child on principles.”
“I can raise a child without strings,” I reply. “I would rather live in a tent by the lake than accept a cent from Evie.”
“You think that’s a strength?”
“I think it’s working,” I say. “I’m doing great, not that you would know. You didn’t come to my show. Funny how it didn’t fall apart without you.”
My mother’s composure fractures, hurt flashing across her expression before she can hide it. “You didn’t tell me about it. I’m not a mind reader. You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”
“I’m making it clear,” I say.
She opens her mouth, and then closes it again, regrouping. “She’ll find a way to be involved whether you like it or not.”
I shake my head. “She’ll try. She always does. And she’ll always win if you let her. I’m not going to let her.” My voice stays steady. There’s no anger in it. No heat. “This isn’t bitterness,” I add quietly. “It’s experience.”
My mother’s shoulders drop. “I love you,” she says. “And I want to be there for you.”
I believe her. That’s the problem. If I didn’t, this would be easier. I could dismiss her, let her words slide off.
“Thank you,” I tell her. I hope she knows I mean it, even if I can’t do things the way she wants. I glance at my watch and push my chair back. “I have a doctor’s appointment. I need to go.”
“I’ll come with you,” she says.
I shake my head. “No. I’m doing this on my own.”
She hesitates, and then nods. “Okay. Will you let me know what you need? I’ll help you with the nursery.”
“Don’t do anything yet. I think I’ve got a crib from one of Alaric’s friends.”
“Okay,” she says. “I’ll call you tonight and see how the appointment went.”
“Thanks.”
As I rise, Emma stands and wraps her arms around me. “Call me later,” she murmurs.
“I will.”
I pick up my bag and step away from the table, the space between my mother and me widening again—not broken but not repaired either.
I drive toward the hospital with both hands on the wheel, keeping my movements smooth and deliberate.
Paradise looks different now that Labour Day has passed.
All the license plates from other provinces and states are gone.
The sidewalks are clearer. Traffic moves the way it’s supposed to.
Our town settles back into itself and prepares for the picking and crushing of grapes over the next few months before the first frost.
I pass the cute little homes that sit downtown and think about what it would be like to live here with my baby. It would give us a yard. We could walk to the lake, and there’s a giant playground not far away.
I’ll have to think about that. I’d need to worry about that for a while before making a change. I have to find a place that works for painting as well.
I pull into the parking lot just off the hospital and cut the engine. The moment the car goes still, my stomach turns. Heat rolls through me. I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the steering wheel, breathing slowly.
Not now, I think. Just not now.
I bargain silently, the way I’ve learned to do. I’ll stay put. Just a few more minutes, long enough to get through this.
My hand moves to sit low against my stomach, not comforting, just bracing.
After a minute, I straighten, open the door, and step out of the car. I’m ready for my appointment. I want to hear what the ultrasound says about the baby’s growth. I still can’t decide if I want to know whether it’s really a girl.
Inside, I check in and have a seat in the reception area.
While I wait, I turn the conversation with my mother over in my head, not for comfort but for accuracy.
My mother’s love has never been the question.
It’s our understanding of how to manage my grandmother and the place we’ve chosen for her in our lives.
It was not easy to step away from my family, and I’m not about to be pulled back into that mess, no matter what I might get in return.
That is where decisions stop being private.
“Addison?” the medical assistant looks out through the open door.
We’re headed down the hall, but first, she brings me over to the scale. She instructs me to step on, and when the scale settles, she nods. “Good,” she says, making a note.
Relief moves through me quietly. I don’t smile. I don’t comment. I just follow her on down the hall. The exam room is small and neutral, everything where it’s supposed to be. I sit on the edge of the table, feet dangling, hands folded in my lap. The paper crinkles under me every time I shift.
“Let’s get your blood pressure.”
She pumps up the cuff on my arm to the point that I’m sure it’s going to pop off before she slowly lets the pressure go. “Your blood pressure is terrific,” she informs me. She makes notes on the computer and tells me the doctor will be in shortly before she disappears.
While I wait for Dr. Hutchinson, I walk over to look out the window. For a moment, I imagine doing manicures and pedicures with my little girl. There are so many things we’re going to do together. We’ll be a great team.
The door opens, but I don’t even turn to look.
“Your ultrasound came over from the imaging center, and things are looking good,” says a voice I don’t recognize. “And your blood work is right on target. That’s all great.”
I swivel around, and my heart nearly stops.
“I’m Dr. Anderson, by the way,” the doctor says, still studying the chart in his hand. “I’ll be taking over Dr. Hutchinson’s practice.” He smiles as he looks up, and everything seems to pause.
It’s him.