Chapter 20
Callie
The waiting room smells like lemon cleaner and something sterile, almost like a hospital. There’s soft music playing from a speaker somewhere overhead, the kind that’s supposed to make people relax but just makes me more aware of how loud my heart’s pounding.
A couple of pregnant women are sitting near the windows, one flipping through a baby name book, another scrolling on her phone with a belly that looks full-term. A toddler in dinosaur pajamas climbs into a chair too big for him, his mom’s hand shooting out before he topples backwards.
Mitch sits beside me, hat turned backwards, jeans dusty from working all day. His knee bounces nonstop, hands clasped like he’s trying not to fidget. We’re the youngest ones here by a mile. Everyone else looks like they belong, like they’ve been here before, like they planned this.
Me? I’m just trying to remember to breathe.
He leans toward me, voice low. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Just…nervous.”
The receptionist’s voice carries over the quiet hum. “Callie?”
My stomach flips. I stand, gripping my bag strap tighter. And Mitch follows me down the hallway lined with pastel photos of newborns.
The nurse’s badge says Melissa. She’s got kind eyes and a ponytail that swishes when she walks. “You can hop up on the table for me, sweetheart,” she says, pulling a rolling stool over. “So you’re here to confirm a pregnancy and receive care throughout the pregnancy?”
“Yeah,” I say quietly, the word catching halfway up my throat.
“Alright. We’ll start with a few questions before the doctor comes in.”
The paper covering the table crackles under me as I sit. It’s cold against my legs, and the smell of disinfectant is heavy in the air. Mitch sits in the chair by the counter, elbows on his knees, hat in his hands now.
Melissa clicks her pen and starts asking me my date of birth, address, some medical history. And then—
“Insurance?”
My mouth goes dry. “I’m, uh, still on my parents’ plan.”
She nods, not even blinking. “Totally fine. We’ll just need the card when you check out.”
She goes through the rest—medications, allergies, family history. “First day of your last menstrual period?”
“June second.”
“Alright. So that should make you right at eight weeks today. But we’ll verify.”
Eight weeks. The number hits like a rock in my chest. I’ve only known for four, yet somehow it’s longer.
“Any pain, bleeding, or cramping?” Melissa asks.
“No.”
“Good.” She smiles. “Nausea?”
“Yeah. But it’s random, not just in the morning.”
She nods, scribbling notes. “Yeah, I don’t know why they call it morning sickness.” She laughs.
Then she hands me a small plastic cup and gives me directions to the bathroom. The hallway’s narrow, the floor tiles shiny enough to catch the overhead lights. I can hear the soft chatter of other nurses and the muffled hum of a printer somewhere nearby.
When I come back, she’s already halfway out the door. “Go ahead and undress and put the gown on,” she says gently. “Doctor will be in shortly.”
The door shuts behind her.
I look at Mitch. Then at the folded gown on the chair. My face heats instantly.
He stands. “I’ll step out.”
I grab his arm before he can take another step. “No, it’s fine. They’ll think that’s weird.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, easing back into the chair. “Okay. Yeah. I guess this isn’t exactly new territory.”
“Just try not to stare,” I tease, tugging my shirt over my head.
He immediately pulls his phone out, eyes fixed on the screen like it’s suddenly fascinating. I catch him glance up a few seconds later anyway, but I pretend not to notice.
Once I’m in the gown, I climb onto the exam table, legs swinging slightly, hands twisting together in my lap. The paper crinkles beneath me with every small movement.
“You okay?” Mitch asks softly, reaching for my hand. His thumb brushes over my knuckles, grounding me.
I nod, but my voice wobbles when I answer. “It just…feels real now.”
Before he can respond, the door opens again.
Dr. Larsen steps in—midforties, short brown hair, wearing a white coat and a cross necklace that catches the light. “Hi, Callie,” she says warmly, holding out a hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“You too,” I whisper, shaking it.
She sits at the little computer station, flipping through the chart. “So, first pregnancy?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, we’ll take good care of you. We’ll confirm it, take some vitals, and go over what to expect.”
Her voice is steady and calm, like she’s done this a thousand times. She walks me through everything—prenatal vitamins, what foods to avoid, how hydration helps with nausea. But each word piles on top of the last, and before long, I can’t keep up. My brain’s foggy. My chest feels heavy.
She asks about my support system next, if family and friends know.
I shake my head. “Not my family, just friends for now.”
Her voice softens again. “That’s okay, sweetheart. You don’t have to have all the answers today. Just take it one step at a time.”
I nod, but the tears are already stinging my eyes. I try to blink them back, but then my voice breaks. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I just…I don’t know how to do any of this. I don’t even know what insurance covers, or if they’ll find out, or—”
She rolls her stool closer, resting a gentle hand on my arm. “Hey, breathe. One thing at a time.”
I cover my face with my hands, but the tears come anyway. Not loud, just steady. Mitch stands quietly and moves to my side, one hand on my shoulder.
Dr. Larsen waits until I’ve stopped shaking before she keeps going, patient and calm. “You’ll stay on your parents’ insurance until you turn twenty-six. They might see billing statements, but nothing personal, no details.”
I nod again, clutching the tissue she hands me.
When I finally look up, she smiles gently. “You’re already doing one of the hardest things—showing up.”
It’s quiet after that. Mitch is just rubbing my back, which grounds me more than anything.
“Are you up for doing an ultrasound today? Just to make sure everything’s where it should be? And a quick exam?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Okay, great,” she says softly.
After the exam, which was way more invasive than I thought it would be, she dims the lights, the TV monitor coming on in front of me as I lay back. Mitch stays standing, his hand now on my shoulder, still rubbing lightly.
She squeezes cold gel onto my stomach, and I flinch. The wand glides over my skin, and then she stops, because there it is.
“That’s your baby’s heartbeat,” Dr. Larsen says softly.
I can’t breathe for a second. A rush of tears builds in my eyes. “Oh wow.” My voice is shaking.
I glance up at Mitch, seeing his eyes glistening. He wipes at them fast with his shoulder, sniffling quick, pretending it’s nothing.
“Everything looks healthy and right on track. Heart rate’s perfect.” Dr. Larsen smiles.
She prints a strip of paper and hands it to me, a grainy black-and-white image of a tiny baby, the words “Hi Mom and Dad” printed beside it. That hits me hard, making it near impossible not to cry. My throat is tight again as I stare at it.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Of course,” she says. “We’ll see you back in four weeks, alright?”
I nod, the tears falling when she leaves. Mitch is already there, arms wrapping around my shoulders, his forehead resting against mine like he’s holding me together. Neither of us says a word. We don’t need to.
I get dressed while he turns away, giving me space without making it feel like distance. Then he walks beside me down the hall, quiet and steady, like he always is when things feel too big.
When we finally get out to the parking lot, the sun’s dipping low, orange light reflecting off the windows. The asphalt’s still hot, the air thick and humming with crickets. Mitch opens my door and waits until I’m buckled before he climbs in.
We don’t speak for a long time. Just sit there, the silence anything but empty.
Then he says quietly, “That heartbeat… That was real.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Look what she wrote.” I hold up the picture and Mitch smiles. His eyes soften and he kisses me.
And somehow, through all the fear and confusion, I feel a tiny spark of peace settle in my chest, the kind that feels like grace.
We don’t know what we’re doing. We don’t even know what comes next. But sitting here in his truck, I do know that I feel God carrying me through.
The drive home feels longer than it is.
Mitch’s truck hums quietly down the back road toward town, the windows cracked enough to let in the warm evening air. I’ve got the ultrasound photo folded carefully in my purse. I can still hear the heartbeat in my head.
Mitch has had his hand on my knee since we left. “You okay?” he asks, voice low.
I nod, staring out the window. “I just…I can’t stop thinking about what she said. About the insurance.”
“Yeah.” He exhales slowly, one hand gripping the wheel tighter. “You think your parents’ll see it?”
“They will.” My throat tightens. “Maybe not today, but it’ll show up eventually. I can’t have them finding out that way.”
He nods, like he already knew that’s where my head would go. “You wanna tell them tonight then?”
I swallow hard, feeling my pulse pick up. “Yeah. I think I have to.”
He pulls into my driveway ten minutes later. My mom’s SUV is parked crooked, like always, and my dad’s truck is beside it.
Mitch cuts the engine. “You want me to come in with you?”
I look down at my hands shaking. “Yes. Please.”
He nods, and I can tell he’s nervous too, though he tries to hide it.
We walk up the front steps together. My palms are damp, and my entire body is shaking.
Mom’s at the counter when we walk in, sorting mail, glasses perched low on her nose. Dad’s sitting in the living room looking at his phone. Both look up when they hear us.
“Oh, hey, Mitch,” Mom says, smiling. “How are you?”
“Good.” He swallows. His voice already sounds wrong.
Mom glances between us. “Everything okay?”
I open my mouth, but the words don’t come right away. My throat’s thick, my chest tight. “Can we talk to you guys for a second?”
Dad shuts his phone off and sits up in his chair.
Mom sets the mail aside. “Sure. What’s going on?”
My fingers tremble as I reach for the zipper on my purse. “I, um, went to the doctor today.”
Her brow furrows, confused. “For?”
My lip quivers. “I—I had to confirm something.” I pull out the folded ultrasound paper and hold it out to her.
She takes it, unfolding it carefully like she already knows what it is but doesn’t believe it. Her eyes drop to the little black-and-white picture. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
“What is it?” Dad asks, squinting.
Mom’s hand goes to her chest and she takes a slow, deep breath. “Oh my gosh.” Her eyes close. “Calliope Elise,” she whispers, and then opens her eyes again, looking back at the photo and then me.
I feel Mitch step a little closer behind me, not saying anything yet, but he’s here.
“It was a mistake. We know that. And I didn’t know how to tell you,” I say quickly, words tumbling over themselves. “But the doctor said the insurance might show it, so I didn’t want you to find out that way.”
She glances at Mitch, who straightens, trying his best to meet her gaze.
“You went with her?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, steady. “We just got back.”
Dad leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face.
“Your parents know?” he calls out to Mitch.
“No, sir, but we’re going to tell them here in the next few days.” He looks to me. “I think.”
“How did this happen? When?” Mom asks. Not sharp. Not accusing. Just…trying to understand.
I swallow hard. “Last month,” I say quietly. “After the fair.”
Dad’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt. He just listens.
Mom nods slowly, absorbing it piece by piece. She keeps holding the ultrasound, thumb brushing the edge of the paper. “Okay,” she says finally. “Okay.”
She sets it down carefully on the table, smoothing it flat. The room is quiet until Mom sighs. “Well,” she says softly, voice tight but not cruel, “you two certainly have a lot to figure out.”
Mitch nods. “We know. I’m gonna be there for her, for the baby. I promise.”
Mom studies him for a long moment, searching his face, then looks back at me. “How are you feeling. Are you okay?”
I try to answer, I really do. But the words don’t come. Everything crashes over me at once—the fear, the uncertainty, the weight of what’s coming—and I break.
“Come here,” Mom says immediately, pulling me into her arms, and the second she does, something in me finally gives. Her hug is warm and familiar, muscle memory from scraped knees, bad days, and every moment I didn’t know what to do growing up. I needed this.
“Deep breaths,” she murmurs, rubbing slow circles into my back.
“I’m scared,” I choke.
“I know,” she says gently.
When she lets go, I swipe at my eyes, my chest still tight. Dad stands then and wraps me up too, solid and quiet. When he steps back, Mom turns and hugs Mitch, surprising him.
“It’ll be okay. One day at a time,” she tells him.
He nods, swallowing. “Yup, that’s what we’re trying to remember.”
And even with all the fear, all the questions, all the unknowns waiting ahead of us, I feel lighter. They know now.
Mom looks between us and takes another deep breath. “Did you two eat dinner?”
We both shake our heads.
“Sit,” she says and gestures to the table, already turning toward the fridge. “I’ll get you something.”
Mitch sits beside me, his hand resting on my leg under the table, thumb brushing slow, steady circles. I reach for it, lacing my fingers through his and holding on tight. He squeezes back, firm, a quiet assurance that we did it, that we survived this part.
Now it’s just a matter of telling everyone else.