Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Bex
Finally, the day arrives. Back to school. My clothes are ironed, hair done, bag packed by seven sharp, I’m ready. I can’t wait to get back in front of my blackboard where I belong. During my suspension, I developed an action plan.
Stage one was cutting alcohol completely from my life.
Stage two was distancing myself from my friendship group.
Stage three was to take up a hobby.
I’ve managed stages one and two. Stage three is still under construction, but so far, I’ve tried tennis, a book club, and geocaching.
None of them hit the spot to complete my goal.
Next week, I’m signed up for yoga. Amy says it’s good for the soul, but I’m terrified I’ll rip my leggings at the seams.
Since that fateful weekend four months ago, where I ended up in bed with Ben, there’s been no contact with him or Kelsey. I heard from Amy that she gave birth to a baby boy, Oliver Jones. Both mum and baby were doing well. They’re now a happy family of five.
Ben vanished from Facebook right after our night together or he blocked me. I’m not sure which, but he’s gone dark. After confessing he’s never stopped loving me as his lips grazed my skin, he ran again, choosing her over me.
Arriving at school, I take in large gulps of air to steady my nerves. I’ve spoken to Max about the complications of returning. The possible negativity that will seep from some of my peers.
It turns out the CCTV footage of my indiscretion behind the pub had been submitted to Principal Fraser by an anonymous parent.
That, combined with whispers among the school community, had been enough to launch a formal investigation.
I had my suspicions about who was to blame, of course. But no confirmation.
Still, I was relieved to learn no one from my current team had spoken out against me.
Max assured me that the staff were on my side, that the tension had died down. The idea of walking back into that building and facing judgment had kept me up at night. But today, I’m here. I’m standing tall. I only have to do this initial walk once, then after that, it’s business as usual.
Today is the day. Day one of a clean slate. And I plan to use it to draw a line in the sand, move on, and live the life I want to.
My classroom hasn’t changed; no one has stepped into my shoes.
Thirteen-year-olds file in and settle quickly.
The expected awkward questions never come.
Whatever stories filled the playground, no one asks a thing.
It’s as if I was never gone. My lessons go on without a hitch, and my students leave with goodbyes and half-smiles.
By lunchtime, the knot in my stomach has loosened. It’s time to head to the cafeteria. I’m nervous facing my colleagues. Max arrives like he said he would when he called me last night.
“I’m not having you walking in to the snake pit by yourself.
I’ve got your back, gorgeous,” he said. His voice a comfort, reminding me I wasn’t alone.
After everything I’ve done to push him away, it still floors me that he stays.
Always circles back to my side, my friend that I can rely on through every challenge.
He takes my hand, and we walk off to lunch together.
***
Three weeks pass. I resume my routine of work, gym, and home. My evenings are spent elbow deep, honing my cooking skills, trying to figure out how healthy foods taste.
Amy checks in a few times a week. Secretly, I know she’s making sure I’m staying off the booze.
My caretaker, as always. But, in all honesty, I’ve not been feeling so well lately.
Each morning, I wake with a headache, feeling nauseous.
Must be stress, I tell myself. New term.
Uncertain future. That would take its toll on anyone.
Now that I’m back on track, it’s all catching up with me.
Friday night marks my twelfth week sober. Amy appears, non-alcoholic fizz and Chinese takeaway in hand. I’m looking forward to a proper girls' night, one filled with idle gossip and a ton of calories.
“Congratulations!” she sings, dumping the goodies on the table before hugging me tight. “I’m so proud of you, sis.”
My tears fall before I can stop them. “Thank you.” It’s all I can manage between sobs. My sister, she’s my rock. She’ll never know how much I love her.
Our meal disappears too quick, and we’re sprawled across the sofa watching some awful film starring Amy’s latest celebrity crush. She chatters about Terry’s latest screw-ups. I pretend to listen. Then she pauses, mid-laugh, her expression shifting.
“Are you even listening to me?” she says icily. My eyes flick away to a picture on the wall, guilty at being caught ignoring her. She grinds her teeth impatiently, then leans forward and pinches my thigh, hard.
“Ouch!” She grins, then her attention returns to the television. “I’ve not been great,” I admit, and she switches it off. “Mornings are rough. Sore head. Nausea.” Amy’s brow creases before her face changes to being horrified as I explain how I’ve been unwell for a few weeks.
“When was your last period?” she asks. My mind races. So much has happened lately. It never even crossed my mind. “I’m not sure. A few weeks ago, maybe. I don’t really keep track. No boyfriend, you see.” I flash her a smile, but a sense of unease creeps in.
“Did you use protection with Ben?” she probes, her eyes narrowing. “Anyone else since?”
Silence. I know where she’s going with this. I can’t be. It was one night, and… surely, we used protection. Both of us couldn’t be that careless. “No,” I whisper. “Just him.”
Thirty minutes later, we’re at the supermarket, giggling nervously like schoolgirls.
Except I’m thirty-three and struggling to remember if the guy wore a condom.
This is basic sex education, and I’ve failed miserably.
If I am pregnant, well, I’ll have a real-life scenario to warn teenagers about the importance of protecting themselves.
Ben’s the only man I’ve had sex with this year, possibly in the last two.
I don’t remember the last time before him.
After he got engaged, I numbed myself with one-night stands.
Since the wedding, I tried to feel it all, even if it hurts.
Telling myself, living it, absorbing the moments will help me move on.
I wasn’t always successful, but sometimes I can almost convince myself it works.
Amy drags me to the intimate health section. Brightly colored bottles of lube promising amazing sensations fill the shelves. The choices are endless, I think absently. Amy grabs a pack of three tests.
“You had unprotected sex over three months ago. No period since. Do the math,” she tells me, and the woman a few feet down turns, then immediately looks away. I laugh, then bolt to the bathroom to throw up. My sister waits outside for me to return.
“You know this is a complete overreaction,” I mutter as we approach the checkout. The salesperson, an older lady, maybe in her fifties, smiles kindly, scanning my tests through. The register beeps as if announcing it to the world.
“Fifteen pounds and thirty pence, please. I hope you get the result you’re wishing for,” she murmurs as she slips the tests in a shopping bag. I’m grateful for her discretion, but my mind considers what she said. What I’m wishing for. I don’t know if I’d prefer positive or negative.
Children were something I accepted wouldn’t happen. With no long-term partner, and a questionable attitude toward moving on, it was unlikely that becoming a parent was in my future. But this, what’s happened, opens the door. Maybe if it’s positive, it won’t be a bad thing. Maybe it was meant to be.
Back at my apartment, we line the tests up next to the sink after I pee on them. Amy sits next to me on the edge of the bath, hands clasped on her lap, eyes on the tests as if they might explode if we don’t keep watch.
“Whatever happens, I’m here for you,” she whispers, cuddling into my shoulder. Disappointment in myself weighs heavy. The guilt, even more so. But then, that unexpected feeling unfurls. A softness. A small sense of hope.
If I am pregnant, then part of him will always be with me. And that doesn’t feel like the worst thing.
Both of us lean forward in tandem. We stare down at the six blue lines, two on each test.
“Yep,” Amy says softly. “You definitely have a bun in the oven.” She bursts into tears, then starts jumping around the bathroom. “I’m going to be an auntie,” she chants.
I gawk, dumbstruck, but I can’t stop the smile spreading across my face.
Here I am, pregnant with the child of the man I love. And yes, he’s married. With kids. But tonight, that doesn’t matter. Bizarrely, it feels like a second chance.
***
The months slip past, and the time never came to tell Ben. Each opportunity, each time I planned to contact him, something would stop me. A photo. A comment. The weight of what I knew telling him would do.
I used Amy’s account to spy on him after he blocked me. His world looked picture-perfect from the outside. I wasn’t ready to be the storm that destroyed it.
I know via Amy, who knows via Terry, that Kelsey knew about our indiscretion that night when they were separated.
But Ben and she talked; they tried again.
Put the past behind them and started fresh.
He put the family he knew he had first. I can’t blame him, though part of me wished he would fight for us.
Terry now has limited contact with Ben. The odd text. A comical email. He also doesn’t know for sure who the father of my baby is. I begged Amy not to tell him the truth. He’s loyal to Ben; he could never keep his mouth shut. I didn’t want to put him in that position.
Amy says he’s never asked. So, deep down, I know he is fully aware. And by not asking, he’s decided not to put himself in the firing line either. He chose peace and obliviousness over knowledge. If it were me, I’d probably do the same.
So, here I am, nine months pregnant with a baby boy and ready to pop.
Work has been incredibly supportive. I have a job to go back to when I’m ready.
I’ve sorted out nursery placements, and, for once, I’m on top of things.
Nesting hit hard. My apartment smells of lavender and fresh paint, baby books stacked neatly on my kitchen table.
Poor Terry has acted like a surrogate husband.
Lifting, painting, and moving whatever is required for a peaceful life.
Two weeks ago, he proposed, and Amy said yes. Now, we both have lots to look forward to. I’m excited for us all.
Even though I’m going to be a single parent, I’m confident I can do this. This little boy is going to be my entire world. My second chance. Maybe the greatest blessing I never thought I’d receive.
One week overdue, pains crease my stomach. I pull myself out of bed. As I waddle to the bathroom, another wave of pain hits. He’s coming. My son is ready to enter my life. I hope his arrival isn’t too difficult.
I text my sister.
Baby Corrigan is a go.
Throwing on my bathrobe, I grab my hospital bag. Amy and Terry burst through the door within minutes. They really do live way too close.
The three of us cram into a black cab. Our driver weaves through the London traffic masterfully, as I breathe dramatically in the back seat.
Every so often, his eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, and he smiles.
It’s warm, comforting, and a little unspoken support from a stranger I didn’t know I needed.
When we arrive at the hospital, I’m admitted to the maternity ward.
Breathe. Push. Repeat. The midwife coaches me through every contraction.
With each one, the pain rises another notch, and my body contracts that bit harder.
But I don’t care, I focus on my son, the little boy I wasn’t meant to have, and I push.
I push, knowing both his and my life depend on it.
Exactly five hours, thirty-two minutes, and fifteen seconds later, after more agony than I ever thought I could have handled, my son, Liam Benjamin Corrigan, entered the world.
He screams as if he’s waited an eternity to make noise.
The nurse places the little blood-covered bundle in my arms, his face screwed up tight in disgust.
But then, I look down as he opens the brightest blue eyes, teamed with a shock of black hair.
Ben left his mark in every way that counts.
He’s given me my son, and he can never know.
But there’s no doubt who his father is, and as I glance at Terry and my sister, we all know it.
Liam is Ben’s son. Nothing has ever been clearer.