14. Cassandra
— ? —
Cassandra
Pregnant.
The word sits in the middle of my chest like a stone, heavy and impossible to move.
“That can’t be right,” I hear myself say. “We tried for two years. It didn’t - we couldn’t…”
“Pregnancy can happen unexpectedly, even after periods of difficulty.” Dr. Ferraro’s voice is gentle, practiced.
He’s delivered this news before, probably hundreds of times, to women in every possible emotional state.
“Based on your reported last period, I’d estimate you’re approximately six weeks along. We can do an ultrasound to confirm.”
Six weeks. That means-
I do the math in my head, counting backward, and the night rises up in my memory like something surfacing from deep water. The kitchen. The flowers. The way Antonio looked at me like I was the most precious thing he’d ever seen. The morning after, when I woke to cold sheets and an empty bed.
That night. We made a baby that night.
“I need a minute,” I say.
“Of course. Take all the time you need. I’ll check back in shortly.”
He leaves, and I lie there staring at the ceiling, trying to make this information fit into the shape of my life.
I’m pregnant. After two years of trying, after giving up, after walking away from my marriage and moving back to my parents’ house and signing separation papers - now my body decides to cooperate. Now, when everything is already impossible.
The timing is almost cruel.
What am I supposed to do with this? Show up at Antonio’s rental and say surprise, the thing we wanted is finally happening, but I still don’t know if I want to be married to you? Let a baby become the reason we stay together when staying together should be about something else entirely?
No. That’s not how this is going to work.
I’ve spent the last three weeks building something for myself. Rebuilding. Learning to be a person again instead of just someone’s wife. I’m not going to let a pregnancy - even this pregnancy, this impossible gift I’d given up hoping for - become the thing that erases all of that.
There’s a soft knock on the curtain.
“Come in.”
The nurse pokes her head through. “Signora? Your husband was listed as your emergency contact - we called him when you were admitted. He drove down and has been waiting outside for the past hour. Would you like to see him?”
Antonio. Of course. I never changed the form after I left Rome, and hospitals follow procedure.
My first instinct is to say no. To protect this fragile new space I’ve carved out, to keep him at arm’s length until I’ve figured out how to feel about everything.
But he drove to Calabria and stood at my parents’ gate and promised not to come uninvited, and he’s kept that promise. He’s been nearby but never intrusive. Respectful in a way he wasn’t capable of before.
And this is his baby too.
“Yes,” I say. “Send him in.”
***
Antonio looks like he hasn’t slept in days.
He hovers at the edge of the curtain, uncertain, like he’s not sure he has permission to come closer. The confident movie star, the man who commands attention in every room he enters, reduced to this - hesitant, worried, waiting for my cue.
“You can sit down,” I say. “You’re making me nervous standing there.”
He sits in the chair beside the bed, his hands clasped between his knees. “Are you okay? They wouldn’t tell me anything - just that you collapsed and they were running tests…”
“I’m okay. I’m…” I take a breath. “There’s something I need to tell you. Something I just found out.”
His face cycles through concern, fear, preparation for bad news. I realize he’s bracing himself for me to tell him I’m dying, or that I’m leaving the country, or something else catastrophic.
“I’m pregnant.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares at me like I’ve started speaking a language he doesn’t understand.
“Pregnant,” he repeats finally.
“Six weeks, they think. From - from that night. Before I left Rome.”
“The night we…”
“Yes.”
He sits back in the chair, running both hands through his hair, and I watch him process it - the shock, the disbelief, the same impossible math I did minutes ago. Two years of trying. Two years of disappointment. And now, in the wreckage of everything else, this.
“I don’t…” His voice cracks. He clears his throat and tries again. “I don’t know what to say.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Are you - how do you feel about it?”
“I don’t know yet. It’s been about ten minutes.”
“Right. Right, of course.” He leans forward, elbows on knees, looking at me with an intensity that makes my chest tight. “Whatever you need, Cass. Whatever you decide. I’m here.”
“That’s the thing, though.” I sit up slightly, ignoring the lingering dizziness. “I haven’t decided anything yet. About the pregnancy, about us, about any of it. And I need you to understand - this baby is not going to be the reason we stay together.”
“I’m not asking it to be.”
“Good. Because I refuse to be groveled at through my own body. I refuse to let a pregnancy become leverage, or guilt, or a shortcut past all the things that are still broken between us.”
“I would never…”
“I know you wouldn’t do it on purpose. But it would happen anyway, wouldn’t it? Every conversation would have this shadow over it. Every time you showed up, I’d wonder if it was for me or for the baby. Every time I felt myself softening toward you, I’d wonder if it was real or just hormones.”
Antonio is quiet for a long moment. Then he nods slowly.
“So what do you want me to do?”
“I want you to keep doing what you’ve been doing. Be nearby. Be available if I need you. But don’t assume that this changes anything between us - not until we’ve figured out whether it should change anything.”
“And the baby?”
“The baby is ours. Whatever happens with us, this child will have two parents who love it. That’s not in question.”
“But co-parenting doesn’t mean…”
“Co-parenting means we figure out how to raise a child together. It doesn’t mean we automatically reconcile. It doesn’t mean I forgive everything that happened. It means we’re adults who are going to have a baby, and we’ll deal with that like adults.”
He nods again, and I see something shift in his expression. Not disappointment exactly - more like acceptance. Like he’s adjusting his expectations in real time, making room for this new reality.
“Okay,” he says. “I can do that.”
“Really?”
“You’re asking me to be patient and respectful and present without pressuring you. Those are reasonable boundaries, Cass. They’re boundaries I should have respected a long time ago.”
I hadn’t expected him to agree so easily. Part of me - a petty, wounded part - wanted him to push back, to give me a reason to be angry, to confirm that he’s still the man who doesn’t listen when I tell him what I need.
But he’s not pushing. He’s sitting in a hospital chair, looking at me like I’ve handed him something precious, and agreeing to whatever terms I set.
The door opens, and Dr. Ferraro enters, followed by a nurse with an ultrasound machine.
“Signora Guerriero, we’re ready for the imaging whenever you are.” He notices Antonio. “Is this…”
“My husband,” I say, and the word feels strange in my mouth. “He can stay.”
Antonio catches my eye, a question in his expression. Are you sure?
I nod slightly, and he settles back in his chair.
The ultrasound is quick and undramatic - cold gel, a wand pressed against my stomach, grainy images on a small screen.
Dr. Ferraro points to a tiny blob that apparently constitutes a six-week embryo, and I stare at it trying to feel something.
Joy? Terror? The overwhelming maternal instinct that’s supposed to kick in at moments like this?
What I feel is mostly tired.
“Everything looks normal for this stage,” Dr. Ferraro says. “The embryo is measuring appropriately, and we can see cardiac activity, which is a good sign.”
“Is there anything I should be doing?” I ask. “Any restrictions?”
“Standard first-trimester precautions. Rest when you’re tired, stay hydrated, eat regular meals - the fainting today was likely a combination of dehydration and low blood sugar. Your body is working hard right now. You need to support it.”
“But no bed rest? No…”
“No special restrictions beyond common sense. Come back in two weeks for a follow-up, and call immediately if you experience any bleeding or severe pain.” He smiles. “Congratulations to both of you.”
He leaves, and Antonio and I sit in silence, the ultrasound image still frozen on the screen.
“That’s our baby,” he says quietly.
“That’s our baby.”
He reaches for my hand, hesitates, pulls back. “Sorry. I wasn’t sure if…”
“It’s okay.” I take his hand myself, surprising both of us. “This is… a lot.”
“Yeah.”
We sit there for a while, holding hands in the hospital room, two people who don’t know how to be married anymore trying to figure out how to become parents.
Finally, I let go.
“I’m going to keep scouting the storefront,” I say.
“The one where you collapsed?”
“It’s a good space. I’m not going to let a fainting spell scare me off.”
“But…”
“I’m building this atelier, Antonio. I’m building something that’s mine. The pregnancy doesn’t change that. If anything, it makes it more important.” I meet his eyes directly. “I need to know who I am outside of being someone’s wife. I need to have something that belongs to me. Do you understand?”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then he nods.
“I understand.”
“Good.” I start gathering my things - my phone, my bag, the jacket someone hung over the chair. “Now take me home. I have measurements to finish.”