Chapter 22
Julia
Imake sure I’m in bed with the light off before Richard gets home from his late flight.
He’ll be in a better mood to hear the news in the morning than he will tonight, after a long day of work and travel.
Despite the fact that the smell of the cleaners made me queasy, I got the house scrubbed top to bottom, all my kimchi containers moved over to Heidi and Nicole’s garage fridge, and clean sheets in the master bedroom even though nobody has slept in it since he left.
He shouldn’t have anything to complain about.
I’m wrong, of course. The first thing he says to me in the morning when I stumble into the kitchen is, “Pajamas?”
I look down at my purple flannel PJs. Normally, when he’s home, I get dressed before I do anything else. Richard is a big believer that pajamas should never leave the bedroom. But when he’s gone, I like to stay in my comfy, cozy night clothes while I have my morning coffee. I just forgot.
“Pregnancy brain,” I blurt.
Well. That was one way to go about breaking the news.
He doesn’t react. Not right away. He sets his mug down on the granite counter beside him with an audible clink. “Julia,” he says too-calmly, like I’m a small child who has misbehaved. “We’ve talked about this.”
“I know, I agreed not to bother you with the medical details. I just thought this was important. Something you’d want to know. I’m not trying to violate the contract or go back on my word or anything.” I clench my jaw to make myself stop babbling. That annoys him more than anything.
He ignores me, continuing, “Adults wear clothing in public.”
Oh. He meant about the pajamas. “This isn’t public. This is my house.”
He arches one eyebrow, mouth twisting. “Is it?”
With that, he picks up his coffee, sips it, and walks out of the kitchen toward his home office. I hear the door latch behind him, and then I rush to the half-bath to lean over the toilet and hurl.
Of course, Richard had to remind me about the house.
This is his house. His wealthy family already owned it before we got married, so the prenup spells it out clearly: if we split, I’m the one who has to move out, and I have no claim on it.
In the past, he’s mentioned several times that he’ll sell it or rent it out if we divorce.
The girls would have to move out, too. He’d throw away their childhood home just to get back at me if I leave him.
It’s always seemed worth it to stick it out so they can have stability, but today…
today, it’s not feeling so worth it. I’m probably just extra vulnerable because of the pregnancy hormones, though.
My boobs are sore, and I’m tired even though I went to bed early.
This pup is already making its presence known.
I smile at that in spite of feeling like garbage.
After cleaning up in the bathroom, I settle my stomach with the tea and crackers Ian got for me.
It’s only then that I can have a positive attitude about how the conversation went.
Namely, that Richard didn’t get pissed off when I mentioned being pregnant. What a relief.
I guess I’ve had an underlying fear that, despite his unbothered reaction to the whole idea, he’d flip out when I was actually carrying someone else’s baby. But he isn’t, so that’s good. Maybe we can get through this without any major upsets. Without involving the girls.
I pull out my phone and text the group chat with them even though it’s the middle of the night there: “I love you. I’m proud of you.”
“I love you, too, Mama,” Samantha messages back immediately.
“What are you doing awake?!?!”
“It’s Saturday night,” she returns, adding an eyeroll emoji. “We’re out.”
A picture comes through, a selfie with her, Molly, and four other girls, all grinning widely and doing cute poses for the camera. A noraebang screen is clearly visible behind them. It reminds me of how much fun I had at karaoke with my friends and Ian, and I well up immediately.
“Have fun, babies,” I type through my tears. “And be safe.”
“We will!” Molly adds in, including a bunch of heart, microphone, and music-note emojis, which is cute. She’s still so young. It’s hard to remember what it was like, being so brave and innocent and hopeful. I hope she and her sister keep that feeling for a long time.
I rub my lower belly. When should I tell them that they’re going to have half-siblings? Will it make my daughters think differently of me that I’m having one or more babies with a man other than their father?
Before I can torture myself thinking about it any more, a notification from Ian pops up on the screen. “How are you doing?”
Why is my heart pounding so fast, seeing his name come up on my phone? Maybe another pregnancy thing. “Fine,” I type back, adding a pregnant-lady emoji.
“Did you tell him yet?”
“Yes.” My thumbs hover over the keyboard, wanting to add additional context, but…how can I summarize my complicated feelings? In the end, I decide my feelings don’t matter. It’s really about Richard’s reaction. “He was neutral.”
“Phew.”
I give his relieved response a thumbs-up. I agree. Neutral was always the best-case scenario.
“See you Thursday?” he asks, meaning the prenatal appointment. Another thumbs-up.
Do I want to spill my heart out to him about Richard’s barbed comments and implied threats? About my hopes and fears for my kids? Yes. I’m dying to confide in him. But I’m not stupid. The more I rely on Ian for emotional support now, the more I’m going to miss him when he’s gone.
Six hours later, I’m in the guest room, sobbing on a video call with my mom. All she has to do is ask how the baby shower went, and I lose it.
“It was b-b-beautiful. I b-b-brought persimmons,” I choke out.
She frowns, peering at the screen over her crochet project. “What’s wrong with you? Are you in bed?”
What can I say? I grasp for excuses, and none of them fit. Why am I such a mess? Oh, right, the bucket of first trimester hormones coursing through me.
“I’m p-p-pregnant,” I blubber, unable to lie any more. I don’t know why I thought I could keep this all secret from her. I tell her pretty much everything that goes on in my life. Even when I was a teenager, I’d tell on myself, whether I’d kissed a boy or broken one of her dishes.
She sits back so she’s at a weird angle from her tablet camera, but the half of her face that I can see has gone eerily still. “Hm,” she says. That’s it, just hm. She’s not happy.
“I know I’m too old,” I start, my tears drying.
She shakes her head, interrupting me. “It’s not that. I just had hopes for you. They were my hopes, really.”
“What?”
“That you might not be so tied to him once Soo-Min and Eun-Min graduate.” She moves back into frame. “But it’s not the end of the world. You’ll be fine. I’ll come help you when the baby is born.”
Shit. If I’m going to tell my mother part of the truth, I have to tell her the whole truth. I sigh, bracing for the force of her disapproval. “It’s not Richard’s.”
Her mouth drops open, and then a broad smile curves across her face. Her head tips back, and she laughs. Not the reaction I was expecting. “Not his?! Whose, then?”
“I’m a surrogate for Ian. The wulver friend?
” I explain. “It turns out I’m his fated mate, and he can’t have kids with anyone else.
I wanted him to have a chance at fatherhood, so…
I agreed to carry his pups.” She doesn’t need to know about the insemination method, or about the way his amber eyes make my stomach flutter and my thighs clench.
Some things my mom doesn’t need to hear.
I add, in case she’s wondering, “Richard doesn’t mind. ”
“Congratulations,” Eomma says, her eyes twinkling like she knows a joke I don’t. “How far along are you?”
“Not far. I’m bad at keeping secrets.”
She nods knowingly, and we share a chuckle. “So you fed his family persimmons, huh? What did they think?”
“They ate them all.”
“I meant what did they think of you?” She goes back to her crochet, the yarn’s little movements hypnotic as she loops and hooks, loops and hooks.
“They were nice.” I shrug, swiping the drying tears off my cheek with a tissue. “It doesn’t matter. Once the pup is born, that will be that.”
“Hm,” she says again in the same tone. The one that says she doesn’t agree with what I’ve said.
“What?”
“Nothing. When should I come to help with the baby?”
I swallow hard. I won’t need her help with any babies… But I will need her help. I’ll need someone to cry with. “Come when the girls do in January, like we talked about.”
She holds up her crochet project, just a white, lacy corner. “This could be a baby blanket,” she says, eyeing me for a reaction.
Now it’s my turn to say, “Hm.”