45 | ☕The Great Vomit Veto Atlas vs. Stubborn Baby Mama ☕
Atlas had immersed himself in every book, every article, every blog post he could find on the subject of pregnancy.
He scoured forums where expectant parents swapped horror stories and advice, absorbing it all with a kind of desperate diligence.
He took notes in the margins of his favourite guides, highlighting tips on how to be the best possible support system, the most patient partner, the most informed ally.
"Morning sickness usually fades by the second trimester," they said with reassuring tones, as if it was some simple rite of passage that would quickly fade into the background. "By the time you hit 12 weeks, you'll feel like yourself again," they promised.
He clung to these promises like lifelines, like they held the secret to the sudden return of normalcy. But as the weeks dragged on, Atlas found himself questioning the validity of every article, every glowing testimonial.
Anya was five months pregnant, and if anything, her morning sickness had worsened.
She had woken up more than once in the middle of the night, hands pressed to her stomach, a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead, struggling with the same nausea that had been a constant companion since the day they found out about the twins.
It was as if the universe itself had decided to keep testing Atlas's patience—stretching it further with each new wave of sickness.
The morning sickness didn't fade. In fact, it was like a cruel joke—just when he thought it might be over, it hit harder than before, and Anya's exhaustion only seemed to deepen.
And as for the cravings? The ones that were supposed to balance out with time?
The ones they said would be sweet and manageable, like an occasional slice of pickles with ice cream?
No. Instead, it was a constant, shifting storm of foods she couldn't stand, foods that revolted her one moment and then pulled her into a whirlwind of desperate need the next.
They were liars. All of them. The calm voices on the blogs, the hopeful promises in the pamphlets. Nothing prepared him for this—nothing prepared him for the emotional whiplash of watching someone he loved go through this unrelenting, chaotic transformation.
He had tried everything. Ginger tea. Sea bands.
Watching rom-coms with her, their laughter faintly echoing in the background as they settled on the couch, trying to drown out the tension of another failed attempt to ease her discomfort.
None of it worked. The nausea clung to her like a shadow, relentless and cruel.
Her stomach still turned at the slightest scent of anything with a strong flavour.
The faintest whiff of garlic? Gone. She'd sprint to the bathroom before the pungent scent even had a chance to settle.
A dash of cinnamon? Gone. She'd lean over the sink, her face scrunching in disgust as the smell—just the smell—set her off.
No amount of soothing words or comfort could calm the storm brewing in her stomach.
Atlas couldn't understand it. He'd read about pregnancy being challenging, of course.
He'd braced himself for the discomfort, for the long nights and the unpredictable nature of it all. But this? This felt like a cruel joke.
He watched as Anya gripped the edge of the kitchen counter, her knuckles turning white, her face pale, and her eyes unfocused, like she was somewhere far away, caught in the grip of another wave of nausea.
He knew the signs by now—the way her breath would quicken, the way her posture would stiffen, and the faraway look in her eyes as she tried to hold it together.
His instinct kicked in, and he moved quickly, stepping up behind her as she doubled over.
Without a word, he reached for her hair, pulling it back gently, his fingers threading through the strands as he tucked it behind her ears.
His touch was soft but firm, the kind of steady reassurance she needed when the world felt like it was spinning too fast.
Atlas kept his other hand pressed lightly against her back, the warmth of his palm grounding her, reminding her that she wasn't alone.
When she finally gagged and vomited, his patience was unwavering.
He stood there, holding her hair back, never flinching at the mess, his heart breaking just a little more each time.
He didn't speak, didn't ask if she was okay, because he knew the answer wouldn't change.
Instead, he focused on small comforts—adjusting her hair when it slipped, rubbing her back in slow circles.
He knew the helplessness that often gripped him, but right now, he needed to be the one to offer her something she could hold onto. Something steady.
When she was finished, Atlas gently pulled her into his arms, guiding her to sit on the nearby chair.
He rested his forehead against hers for a moment, his hands trembling ever so slightly as he brushed the damp strands of hair from her face.
His eyes locked with hers, and he lifted his hand to his chest, tapping it once before pointing to her, then back to himself, a simple gesture that conveyed more than words ever could.
He repeated the gesture, this time pressing his palm to his heart and then to hers, as if to say, I'm right here. Always. For anything.
Her eyes fluttered open, exhausted but grateful. She smiled weakly, her hand resting on his. He smiled back, his gaze full of quiet understanding.
And the cravings? He was starting to question reality.
One minute, Anya was ravenous for fruit, devouring whole oranges as if she hadn't eaten in days.
The next, she couldn't even look at a banana without recoiling in horror.
Her tastes shifted by the hour, each time leaving Atlas scrambling to find something she could stomach.
It was a never-ending cycle of confusion and chaos, and he was beginning to wonder if pregnancy had some cosmic sense of humour he wasn't in on.
Was this really what people had meant when they spoke of "the miracle of life"? Because so far, it felt more like an endless series of challenges. And all he wanted, more than anything, was to see her smile again without that shadow of discomfort hanging over her every waking moment.
Yesterday, she had sent him to a bakery at midnight for "freshly made strawberry shortcakes with extra whipped cream." He had come back to find her taking a bath, her craving long gone and replaced by something else entirely.
Tonight, she was demanding pickles—dipped in orange juice.
"Atlas, I'm serious. I need it," she had said, looking at him like he was the one making unreasonable demands.
He blinked, unsure if he had heard her correctly. "You want... orange juice with pickles?"
"Yes."
Anya just shot him a look that could freeze lava. "You try being pregnant with twins. You'll understand."
He didn't dare argue. He was learning fast that "understanding" didn't matter—obedience did. If Anya wanted a snack at any time, he got it. No questions, no hesitation.
As Anya happily munched on the pickles, dipping them into the orange juice with all the enthusiasm of a toddler discovering candy for the first time, Atlas stood there, staring in disbelief.
His hands were still slightly shaking from the latest shopping spree for "weirdly necessary" items—like pickles and orange juice, and that one time when she had insisted on three different kinds of cheese for a sandwich she'd never even eaten.
He watched her, still stunned by the absurdity of it all. But as crazy as it was, as out of his depth as he sometimes felt, something inside him softened. He smiled to himself, shaking his head.
And as absurd as it all seemed, he realized—he wouldn't change a thing.
Because, no matter how surreal or baffling pregnancy could get, it was all leading to one single, undeniable truth: his family—their family—was growing.
And nothing, not even the wildest cravings or most bizarre midnight snack requests, could ever make him wish for anything else.
Atlas woke up to the all-too-familiar sound of retching.
He had been hearing it almost every morning for the past few weeks now, and it was beginning to feel like a cruel, never-ending cycle.
Rubbing his temples, he sighed deeply before throwing the blankets off himself and getting out of bed.
The moment his feet hit the cold floor, he already knew where he needed to go.
He didn't hesitate. He knelt beside her, his hand going straight to her back, rubbing slow, steady circles in an attempt to ease some of the tension that gripped her. His thumb moved in a gentle rhythm, an offering of comfort. "Still feeling nauseous?"
Anya shot him a tired, deadpan look, her face half-hidden by her hair. "No, Atlas. I just enjoy throwing up for fun," she said with a sarcastic edge, though her voice was hoarse and strained.
Atlas smiled faintly at her attempt at humour, but it didn't reach his eyes. He pressed a kiss to her temple, his lips lingering for just a moment longer than necessary. "Want me to call the doctor again?" he signed, hoping to give her an out if she needed it.
She shook her head weakly, her forehead leaning against the edge of the toilet. "No. They already said it happens sometimes. I just have to suffer through it." Her words came out tired, a mixture of resignation and frustration, as though she were sick of explaining herself over and over.
Atlas' frown deepened. His heart ached to see her like this—so drained, so vulnerable. He hated the helplessness he felt when all he could do was watch, unable to make it stop.
He exhaled slowly, his expression firm as he reached for Anya's hand. He squeezed it gently, then signed, "No."
Anya frowned, her brows knitting together. "No?" she echoed, her voice laced with quiet defiance.
Atlas nodded, his movements slow but deliberate as he signed again, "Anya, this isn't just 'something that happens.' You can barely keep anything down. It's been weeks. I'm calling the doctor. Or better—hospital."
Her expression hardened, a flicker of stubbornness flashing in her tired eyes. She shook her head. "I'm fine," she said, her voice strained but resolute. "I don't need the hospital."