Chapter 29
Megan
I wasn’t even supposed to test for two more days. But Mother Nature beat me to it.
And I didn’t cry this time. Not even a little. Nope. Because I’m…over it. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
I felt so sure this month. My body had new aches, I felt this strange heaviness low in my stomach, I was exhausted…my symptoms felt different. I let myself hope. I let myself believe maybe—maybe—this was it.
But it didn’t matter.
I go through the motions of my morning routine anyway, determined—borderline stubborn—about having a normal day. I curl my hair, put on mascara, pick out a sweater with bright colors. I’m going to school, and I’m going to be the best teacher I can be.
That’s the one place I still feel…useful. Needed. Fulfilled. Kids who run to hug me, who call me “Mrs. Jennings” and need me. I’m needed.
Maybe that’s all motherhood will ever be for me. Within the four walls of my classroom. Clock in, clock out. Maybe that’s all I’m made for.
I don’t bother telling Mason. He’s already gone for the day, and he wasn’t expecting me to test yet anyway. He doesn’t need to be worrying about me at six in the morning while he’s trying to work.
I’ll tell him tonight. When I can see him and I can assure him that I’m fine and over it.
I just hope he’ll believe me.
* * *
By midmorning, the classroom is loud—in the best way. Pencils scratching, chairs scooting, kids talking about the silliest, most random things. It’s exactly the kind of noise I need today. The kind that fills the empty spaces in my head.
“Mrs. Jennings, look at my drawing.”
Taylor holds up a folded piece of paper with a lopsided cat wearing a sparkly pink bow.
“Oh my goodness.” I gasp dramatically. “I love it! I love the sparkles.”
She giggles, admiring it herself again with a shy “thank you.”
Another kid calls my name, then another, and pretty soon I’m circling the room, kneeling beside desks, tying a shoe, settling an argument about whose turn it is to use the jumbo glue stick.
It’s comforting and simple.
When dismissal finally hits and the last kid waves goodbye, I exhale softly. I survived the day without crying. That’s something.
As I walk to my car, my phone buzzes.
Mom: Thrift store just opened today! Want to go peek with me?
I smile before I can help it. The new thrift store is all anyone has been talking about—half antiques, half boutique.
Me: Yes!
By the time I pull into the little downtown lot, Mom is already there, waving at me like she hasn’t seen me in years, though it’s probably only been two weeks. I stopped for dinner one night when Mason worked late.
Inside, the thrift store smells like lavender and old books, which is a combination I didn’t know I needed. Wooden shelves line the walls, filled with mismatched mugs and quirky pottery. Mom gravitates toward a display of antique glassware and I follow.
“Oh, look at these!” she whispers like we’re in a museum. “Aren’t they dainty?”
“They look like something straight out of Grandma’s house.”
“Exactly! That’s why I like them.”
I wander to a rack of cozy knit cardigans, running my fingers along the sleeves. A soft gray one catches my eye—simple, warm, something I could wear on a quiet day at home or with a skirt for church or school.
“You should get that,” Mom says over my shoulder.
I check the price. “For only eight dollars, I am.”
She laughs and sets it in the basket for me.
She then gets distracted by a lamp shaped like a goose wearing a bonnet.
“Mom,” I whisper, laughing. “Please don’t buy that.”
“Oh, I’m absolutely buying it,” she says. “Your father will hate it.”
We both laugh and spend another twenty minutes browsing—her touching everything, me finding the most random things I absolutely need. A spoon rest shaped like a heart, a picture frame, candleholders, a bread box, and my favorite of all, a yellow-and-pink cake stand.
By the time we’re walking back to our cars, I feel…lighter. I needed the distraction to breathe again. And maybe a front seat full of thrifted treasures is exactly the kind of therapy I needed.
* * *
A few minutes later, Mason’s truck pulls in. My stomach tightens, not in excitement, but in defense. I’m not ready to talk, not ready to unravel, not ready to say, “Hey, number ten is negative. Surprise!”
He steps inside quietly.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi.” I keep my back to him, focusing on peeling a price sticker off the spoon rest.
“How was your day?”
“Good.”
He exhales long enough that I look up and I wait.
“Addison had Weston today.”
I go still.
“What? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“I told them not to,” he says quickly.
“Why would you do that?” I say, my voice spiking.
“I wanted to make sure you were okay. Can you really blame me?”
“I can handle a ‘Congrats’ text, Mason. I knew she was due. I was waiting. I would’ve been fine.”
He looks at me like he doesn’t buy it for a second.
He steps forward. “Okay, I’m sorry. I was just trying to be extra gentle with you after what happened when she announced she was pregnant and all.”
“Well, now I just feel coddled,” I fire back. “I didn’t get the chance to redeem myself or even try to cope with it.”
He softens, steps closer. “I was trying to help. I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”
“That’s not your decision. You didn’t ask me. If you would’ve asked me, I would’ve said not to do this. I would’ve assured you I’d be okay.”
He shakes his head. “But you’re only saying that because we still don’t know about this month yet and—”
“It’s not,” I cut in.
He freezes.
“I woke up with my period.”
Everything in his face falls—slow, stunned—like he’s absorbing the hit.
“You…did?” he asks, voice barely there.
I nod, one tear slipping down my cheek.
“Meg…” His voice goes hoarse. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I’m done. I’m over it.” It comes out sharp, brittle. And his hurt is instant.
“Megan,” he murmurs. “You’re not over it.”
“Yes,” I insist, wiping my cheek too fast. “I am.”
“No, you’re not,” he says quietly. “You just stopped talking about it. That’s not the same thing.”
I swallow hard.
He steps closer, arms wrapped around my head, his cheek pressed against my hair. It isn’t until now that I realized how much I needed his embrace.
I stand in the kitchen by myself now, surrounded by thrift bags and silence, when something inside me flips. An epiphany.
If being around pregnancies and babies hurts, then maybe the only way through it is to stop avoiding it.
No more tiptoeing. No more hiding at home, skipping church and family events to “protect my peace.”
Avoidance didn’t help. So maybe immersion will.
If I can fully face it—the newborns, the announcements, the round bellies, the family joy—then maybe it’ll just hurt so much all at once that eventually…it won’t hurt at all.
That’s my new logic.
So I blow my nose, check my mascara, and I find Mason in the office.
“Text your sister and ask if we can come visit tonight.”
He turns to see me. “You sure?”
“Yeah. I’ll be in the truck.” And that’s what I do. Because avoiding hasn’t healed me. So maybe drowning in it will.
* * *
The hospital visit plays out exactly how I knew it would.
Everyone’s all soft-spoken and smiles and congratulations.
Addison looks absolutely amazing—glowing, happy as ever with a baby she’s wanted nearly her entire life.
And Wesley? Total Dad Mode has been engaged.
He’s got this new protective energy about him.
Every move Addison makes, he’s watching her, wanting to help with anything and everything she needs.
On the outside I look fine, normal…but inside, it’s chaos. There’s a quiet ache I keep swallowing down so fast I barely breathe.
Everyone’s happy. Everyone’s glowing. Everyone’s taking turns holding Weston.
I stand close. I talk. I ask Addison questions and I think, See? I can do this. I can survive this. Even if I’m lying to myself.
But when I hold him—his tiny, seven-pound-eight-ounce body that’s only nineteen inches long—it takes everything in me not to break.
“He’s adorable,” I manage. My voice comes out steady, even sweet, but everything inside me is trembling.
Mason stays close, his arm brushing mine. Weston’s tiny fist wraps around Mason’s finger, holding on like he already knows him. Mason smiles down at him, soft and gentle, and something deep down in me twists.
Weston blinks his eyes open for the first time since we got here—tiny, slow, curious.
“Brown eyes?” Mason asks, looking to Addie, and she nods. I wouldn’t have guessed any different; she and Wes both have brown eyes. Nearly the same shade too.
Weston gets a little fussy, and I don’t hesitate to give him back to Wesley. I watch them together for a minute, talking about the last time he ate. Mason looks at me—really looks—and I know he can see it in my eyes, even if I’m trying to hide it.
I force myself to breathe. I can do hard things.
I can survive this. Even if surviving feels a whole lot like breaking quietly on the inside.
But as I stand there, surrounded by family, by joy that isn’t mine yet, I feel something I haven’t felt this whole time.
A little peace.
Small, but real. Like God nudging my heart and whispering, Let Me handle this. And I let that sink in.
I loosen my grip just a little and let myself truly believe that God will work at His own pace…and that has to just be enough for today.