12. Sloane
Sloane
I smooth my hair (pointless, since my cam’s cropped to my eyebrows and cheekbones), adjust my laptop on the kitchen island, and take a bracing sip of orange juice.
My daily vitamins rattle around in my belly like I’m smuggling maracas.
According to Dr. Chen, vitamin C helps with “gestational immune resilience.” According to me, it just makes me pee neon.
The screen glitches, then Dr. Chen’s face appears, serene and oval and so perfectly, inoffensively pleasant.
She’s been my therapist since sophomore year of undergrad, and she’s seen every version of me: sleep-deprived, post-breakup, caffeine-jittery, and (currently) hormone-flooded.
I can’t decide if this makes her more or less qualified to guide me through the next nine months.
“Hello, Sloane!” Her greeting is clipped but warm, like she’s mastered the art of emotional regulation and wants to loan me some. “How are you feeling today?”
“I have achieved the coveted Triple Crown,” I deadpan. “Nausea, night sweats, and a desperate, animal craving for Scampi Fries.”
She smiles. “It’s nice to see you’re still finding humor in things. Seriously—how’s your mood this week?”
I do a mental scan: brain, gut, pulse. “Honestly? Good. Better than last month. I think the second trimester is going to be my Olympic event.” I force a smile, then realize I don’t have to—she’s not grading me on enthusiasm.
“I’m not getting those…spikes. The ones where I start rearranging the spice drawer at three a.m. or sob because I stepped on a baby carrot. ”
Dr. Chen tilts her head, as if this is diagnostically relevant. “Has Eden noticed the change?”
“She’s thrilled, obviously. Now I only cry during reality TV.”
Dr. Chen’s pen flicks in and out of the frame. “And how is your relationship? Are you feeling supported?”
If “supported” means Eden has constructed a literal pillow fortress around our bed and made “Check in with Sloane” a recurring calendar event, then yes. If “supported” means she’s going to stop worrying that I’ll break in half if I reach for the salt, then…no. But that’s just how we’re built.
“It’s good. We’re in a nice rhythm. She brings me ginger ale, and I try not to scare her with my homicidal urges toward the vacuum cleaner.”
Dr. Chen nods with a small grin. “You’re doing well. The transition to pregnancy, especially after IVF, can be overwhelming for many people. Are you still doing the exercises we discussed?”
I give a thumbs up. “Five-minute meditation, twenty times a day.”
She smiles, satisfied. “Excellent. Now, let’s talk about work. Are you still seeing patients at the practice?”
This is the part I’ve been practicing in my head for weeks.
“I’m on a lighter schedule.” A truth so carefully crafted it’s almost a lie.
“Mostly admin and virtual consults. I’ve delegated all the high-contact stuff.
I’m—” The word “fine” sticks to the roof of my mouth.
“I’m managing. Lila’s stepped up a lot.”
“She’s your lead therapist, correct?”
“Yes. She’s got a good handle on my caseload, and the clients actually like her more.
” I try to sound light, but there’s an electric pang under the words.
Lila is competent, brilliant, and will definitely not panic if a baby decides to rocket out of me in the middle of a session.
“I’m working on a succession plan, just in case I need a real break. ”
Dr. Chen leans forward, digitally. “Do you think you’ll want to come back after the baby?”
It’s a question with a radioactive half-life. I’ve toyed with the idea for months, but saying it out loud feels like I’m floating my own eulogy.
“I don’t know.” I hesitate. “Maybe? Or maybe I’ll open a boutique where the only product is cheese and women can scream into a void for five minutes and no one judges them.”
She chuckles, but it’s gentle. “That’s a normal uncertainty. You’re not the same person you were before, and you won’t be the same after. You don’t have to make decisions now.”
She means well, but the not knowing gnaws at me. “The problem is, I kind of like the old me,” I admit. “The one who could run five miles at dawn and then tackle three back-to-back appointments. I don’t want to let her go.”
“Maybe she’ll come back. Or maybe the new you will be even better.” She shrugs, doctorly. “You’re allowed to grieve the changes. And you’re allowed to be more than one thing.”
I let that hang in the air for a while. The silence on video is twice as awkward, like even the broadband can’t fill it. Dr. Chen finally speaks again.
“Let’s do a quick check in on anxiety,” she says, flicking to a new page of notes. “Are you having any intrusive thoughts? Nightmares?”
I shake my head. “Not since I stopped doom-scrolling Reddit. Now it’s just pregnancy memes and Eden’s endless research into vegan baby formula.”
She raises a brow, impressed. “Good. And sleep?”
“Better. I wake up for snacks, but I fall back asleep.”
“Perfect. What about anger or irritability?”
“I tried to fight a goose at the park,” I confess. “But it was mutual. We both wanted the last bagel chunk.”
“Noted. Keep redirecting those feelings into safe, healthy outlets. No fight club antics with poultry.”
I nod, already thinking about whether I can justify a post-appointment doughnut. “Is it weird if I’m…happy? Like, really, disgustingly happy?”
She shakes his head. “It’s not weird at all, but it can feel unfamiliar if you’re used to chronic stress.”
We finish the checklist, which is equal parts standardized mental health survey and “what’s new in Sloane’s world” gossip. By the end, I’m almost convinced I’m not a walking cautionary tale for reproductive psychiatry.
Dr. Chen closes her file. “You’re doing remarkably well, Sloane. You have a strong support system and excellent insight into your own needs.”
“You say that to all the high-achieving pregnant lesbians,” I say, and it’s only half a joke.
She laughs. “Maybe, but it’s true. If you need anything—call. Don’t wait for your next appointment.”
I give her a salute. “Ten-four, Doctor.”
She disappears with the signature telehealth goodbye—a short, digital wave and the abrupt vanishing of her feed. It’s jarring, like being beamed back into my own kitchen, which is suddenly way too bright and way too silent.
I linger at the counter, picking at the edge of a clementine, thinking about what Dr. Chen said. About letting go. About not having to decide what kind of person I’ll be in six months, or even six days.
The orange’s skin peels off in one long, perfect spiral, and I feel a little rush of pride. Old Sloane would have thrown the rind out after two segments. New Sloane lines them up on the plate, neat and in order.
I chew a wedge, sweet and tart at the same time, and wonder if this is what it feels like to change.
The call from Jenna comes at the precise moment my hand is elbow-deep in a bag of Pirate’s Booty, because Eden—having read three contradictory research articles about “heavy metals in classic cheese dusts”—has decreed it the only safe snack for our household now I’ve eaten my way through every bag of Scampi Fries in existence.
I dig out a cluster so massive it might require a fork and answer with my free hand, bracing for whatever sibling-initiated tornado awaits me this fine Tuesday.
“Sawyer-Bishop residence, Sloane speaking,” I announce in my best administrative assistant voice.
“Sloane, darling. I need you to do me a favor,” Jenna says, skipping hello like it’s for the weak. Her accent, sharpened by nearly two years in the UK, slices through my sleepy Colorado morning like she’s ringing from the deck of HMS Queen Mary.
“Hit me,” I say, but softer, because a sleeping Eden is a precious commodity these days.
“Convince your wife to get on a plane. Gran and I want her over here before your pregnancy gets so dramatic you have to fly with a full medical escort.”
I nearly snort Booty dust into my trachea. “You say that like she isn’t already prepping for a medevac.”
“You’re only ten weeks,” Jenna sighs. “What’s she going to do when you’re full-term, wrap you in bubble wrap?”
“She considered it, but the clinical trials are inconclusive,” I say, and there’s no use hiding my pride in Eden’s helicopter tendencies. If devotion could be weaponized, Eden would be a one-woman security detail for every pregnant lady in America.
In the background, I hear what I think is the deep, imperative barking of Kiera, likely wrangling toddlers or a wayward rescue pup. For all her high-functioning adulthood, Jenna’s life is basically a sitcom where she plays both the straight man and the chaos agent.
“Look, Gran’s wants a visit from you two, like now, and you know it won’t end well if she doesn’t get her own way. The sooner you can come over for a week or something, the better.” Jenna laughs.
“I’ll try,” I promise, before she can bring up The Guilt: Sawyer Edition.
Jenna’s tone pivots to brisk. “Text me your flight options. I’ll coordinate on this side.”
The line clicks off, leaving me in a mild existential crisis. To the uninitiated, the prospect of flying cross-Atlantic while gestating a future Olympic runner might seem unwise. To me, it’s a logistical Rubik’s Cube with a prize of family solidarity at the end. The bigger hurdle is Eden.
I tiptoe into our bedroom, careful not to wake my spouse or the fortress of white noise machines she has constructed around our bed.
She’s curled into a parenthesis, dark hair fanned out over the pillow, arms wrapped around the body pillow I don’t need yet but Eden insisted on buying.
I secretly hate how efficiently it’s replaced me.
I stare at her for a second, weighing the pros and cons of waking her up with international drama versus letting her finish a dream cycle.
The third option presents itself when Becca, my best friend in the whole world and accidental morning person, pokes her head in the door. “You’re up early. Did the baby want Pirate’s Booty, or is that just you?”