Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
She’s crying so hard she can’t speak. I take her left hand gently, sliding the ring back where it belongs.
“There,” I say softly. “Right where it’s meant to be.”
Her fingers tremble against mine. “You’re sure?”
I look her dead in the eye. “More sure than I’ve ever been about anything in my life.”
She falls into me then, arms tight around my neck, sobbing against my shoulder. I hold her until the shaking turns into laughter.
“I thought you’d never forgive me,” she whispers.
“I didn’t have to,” I tell her the truth. “Love is unconditional. Without conditions what is there for me to forgive. We’re a team, a unit. You’re mine and Tiny, I’m yours. We’re one. The good times, the bad times, the hard times, and all the in between.”
On the ride home, she leans into me harder than usual, her head resting against my back, fingers tracing small circles on my stomach through my shirt. It feels like something old and sacred — trust rebuilding itself one heartbeat at a time.
When we pull into the driveway, the sky’s streaked orange and purple. She slips off the bike, stretching, her laughter soft.
“I forgot how much I love that feeling,” she says. “Like flying.”
“Better than flying,” I reply, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Flying has rules. This? This is freedom.”
She smiles. “I like our kind of freedom.”
I grin. “Told you. One day at a time.”
The day comes to a close, the fatigue taking her to bed early. When I finally crawl into bed beside her, she stirs, half-asleep. “Tommy?”
“Yeah, Tiny.”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For staying.”
I brush my thumb over her hand, over the ring shining faint in the moonlight. “Ain’t nowhere else I’d rather be.”
She smiles in her sleep, and I lie there watching her breathe, my hand resting lightly over the small curve of her stomach.
I don’t know what the future holds. But I know this, whatever comes, I’ll face it head-on. Because love isn’t about blood or certainty — it’s about choice.
And I’ve already made mine.
Twenty
Jami
Dr. Hart says hope and fear are twins, born of the same heartbeat.
At first, I didn’t believe her. I thought fear came from pain and hope came from healing. But now I get it. They live together inside me. They take turns driving.
When I sit in her office, the walls lined with soft colors and old books, I can feel both, the tremor of worry and the hum of something good trying to grow.
She watches me the way good therapists do, not judging, not interrupting. Just giving space.
“So,” she says gently, tapping her pen against her notebook. “You’re about twenty weeks now?”
“Twenty-one,” I say with a small smile. “We had the ultrasound last week. Baby’s healthy.”
Her eyes soften. “That’s wonderful, Jami.”
“Yeah.” I laugh, nervous and quiet. “Wonderful and terrifying.”
“Both can be true,” she says.
That’s her favorite phrase, opposites happen and sometimes both can be true at the same time.
She leans forward. “What feels the most real right now?”
I stare at my hands, fingers steepled together in my lap. “Honestly? The fear. That something’s going to go wrong. That I’ll mess this up. That the baby will look at me one day and see all the things I used to be instead of who I’m trying to become.”
The dates didn’t align. I know what I did and when I did it. I know the biology of things. Tommy and I have talked about it at length and he still stands firm that this baby is his. I’m thankful for his support. I’m thankful for the encouragement of his entire family. They all rally around me and embrace me in love. I’m thankful that scan after scan, everything looks healthy for our baby girl. The drugs in my system didn’t impact her that we know of yet. I can only pray I have a miracle and it was so early that I detoxed before too much of the junk was coursing through her tiny system.
Dr. Hart nods. “You’re afraid the past will define you.”
“Yes.”
“And what does the future look like when you let yourself imagine it?”
I swallow hard. “Safe. Quiet. Full of laughter. A house where no one yells, no one hides. Tommy reading bedtime stories in that low rumble voice of his. A kitchen that always smells like coffee bacon, and sometimes burned pancakes.”
She smiles. “That sounds like peace.”
“It does.” I glance up. “Is it okay that I want that?”
“It’s more than okay,” she encourages. “It’s proof you’re healing.”
Her words sink into me slowly. Healing. Not fixed. Not perfect. Just growing into better.
For the rest of the session, we talk about grounding, breathing, routine, writing in my journal when the doubts come. She asks me to write a letter to my future self before our next appointment. “Tell her what you want her to remember,” she instructs. “Hope needs somewhere to live.”