Chapter 40 - Tessa
I’m so tired of feeling tired. I am tired of crying, tired of feeling so fucking miserable.
This exhaustion is not just physical, though that’s part of it. It’s the kind of exhaustion that sits behind the ribs, whispering, wearing you thin, turning every small task into a mountain you don’t remember ever climbing before.
The flu, I tell myself. It's stress, heartbreak... Pick any reason; they all fit.
It’s been weeks since New Year’s. Weeks of sleeping in short bursts. Weeks of forcing food into my mouth because my hands shake if I don’t. Weeks of crying until my skull feels hollow. And the dizziness…
It’s been creeping up on me like a shadow that waits for the quiet moments. The moments when I stand too fast or bend over... or breathe wrong.
This morning, I’m standing in the kitchen with a blanket wrapped around me like armour, staring at the open fridge as if the right food might heal me. The cold air prickles against my skin. But nothing looks good, nothing smells good. Even my favourite granola bar makes my stomach flip.
“I can't keep going like this,” I mutter to myself, pressing a palm to my forehead. My skin feels clammy. "You are not this woman, Tessa. Pull it together."
I move away from the fridge and lean on the counter, pulling out the notepad where I keep my grocery lists. Bread. Tea. Chicken. Applesauce, maybe. Crackers.
I feel like a child at home, sick from school. I blink at the half-written list, force my pen to keep moving, and then... My hand stops completely.
A sharp breath punches out of me.
Pads.
When did I last buy pads? I flip through the previous pages of the notepad in a blind panic, checking old lists. Groceries, barn supplies, vet tech notes, feed pickup, but no pads, not even tampons. That feels… wrong.
My cycles were always unpredictable... and added stress, grief, the years of my body learning survival patterns instead of stability. Missing one isn’t unusual... But missing so many that I can’t even recall the month?
My stomach drops hard.
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “I’m not, it’s not, I’m just tired. I’m sick. That’s all.”
But my body answers in its own traitorous ways all the telltale signs I have been avoiding looking at too closely, the dizziness, nausea, brain fog, the bone-deep heaviness.
.. The way my clothes have been fitting differently, my jeans tighter in weird places, and the waistbands I thought were shrinking in the wash.
The sudden metallic taste in my mouth, headaches and the way my heart has been hammering from just walking up the stairs.
Everything inside me goes very, very still.
I find myself in the bathroom without remembering how I got there. I stare at myself in the mirror. I look pale. Strained. Like a ghost of the girl, I was in October.
I press both hands to the sink, and the words slip out before I can stop them:
“Oh... What if I am?”
I grab my keys before I can talk myself out of it, shove a hat over my head, tuck loose hair into my hoodie, and drive into town with the kind of tunnel vision that feels like autopilot.
Every streetlight is too bright, every store aisle feels too loud. I keep my head down as I grab the box. The cashier doesn’t look at me twice. Which is good, I don’t think I could handle even a curious glance.
I get home, lock the door with shaky hands and drop everything in the kitchen except the test box.
I sit on the edge of the tub, palms sweating, chest gripping tight.
“This is stress,” I tell myself again. “I’m sick. My hormones are messed up. My period will come. Any day.”
But my hand still opens the box, I still tear the plastic, my body still moves like it’s not mine as I do what the instructions say.
And then...
I wait.
The longest three minutes of my life.
Then one more.
Because I’m scared to look.
Because I already know.
Finally, I stand. Move one step closer. Two.
And there it is out there in the world. One word that changes everything.
Positive.
My knees buckle, and I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the cold tile, back pressed to the tub.
My breath shudders in and out, like the air is thick and doesn’t want to come into my lungs.
Tears sting, but they don’t fall, not yet.
I stare at the tiny plus sign that just rewrote my entire world.
I’m pregnant.
Pregnant.
My hand drifts to my stomach without permission. I am going to have a baby.
Not someday.
Not in the future, I never wanted to admit I dreamed up with Nate on autumn nights.
But now, here... with my heart bruised and my life in pieces.
My chest caves, and a sob breaks free. Because I always wondered if I even wanted this. If motherhood was meant for girls like me, girls raised on survival, not tenderness. Girls who weren’t taught how to soften for anyone, even themselves.
I always thought that if it happened, I wanted it to be when I was steady. When I was loved, and we had a life that didn’t feel like something I had to build from rubble.
But this little life… this tiny flicker of possibility… isn’t the problem.
It’s the timing, the heartbreak, everything I haven’t healed... all the things left to be said.
I close my eyes, press both hands to my stomach, and calm my breathing.
“I’m not mad at you,” I whisper.
My voice breaks in the middle.
“I’m just… scared. And I wish your beginning didn’t have to look like this.”
The tears slow but don't stop.
“I guess… we’re really doing this.”
My fingers curl protectively.
“I cannot promise you what our future looks like, little one... But I’ll figure it out. I always do.”
The words echo softly in the small bathroom.
And for the first time since New Year’s, something inside me steadies.
Because this little life is mine to protect, mine to love, and I will do everything in my power to do it right.