Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 62994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
I stand there, staring at the shelf. My hands tremble slightly as I reach for the box, then grab another brand just to be safe. I pay at the self-checkout so I don’t have to look anyone in the eye as I make my purchase.
When I finally reach my apartment, I lock myself in my bathroom even though I’m the only one here. I take the test out of the box, my hands shaking so badly I almost drop it. I tell myself again that I’m just doing this for peace of mind. There’s no way I could be pregnant.
Except that I’m late. I’ve been feeling more tired than usual. The smell of coffee alone almost made me lose it. I swallow hard as I try again not to vomit.
The instructions blur. My vision swims. I sit on the edge of the tub and wait. It feels like the longest minute of my life. When the results appear, my breath leaves my lungs in one silent rush.
It’s positive.
I’m pregnant. I stare at the tiny window until the lines blur and my eyes sting.
I always wanted a family. A real family. Something that belonged to me. Something no one could take away. I wanted to break the cycle of my childhood, to build something good out of everything that hurt me.
But this isn’t how I imagined it at all.
I always pictured it years from now, when I had stability and a home with a yard and maybe someone who loved me. Not now. Not alone. Not with a man I barely know. A man who brutally murdered another man as if it was nothing. A man who gave me the best orgasms of my life and never called me again.
It’s all wrong, and not remotely the kind of life I’d hoped to give a child.
And yet, underneath the fear and the nausea, something else starts to bubble up in my chest. It’s a fragile and overwhelming joy.
I’m going to have a baby. Someone who’s all mine. Someone who belongs to me. Someone I can love without fear of being discarded. Someone who’s half me. I’ll have a real family, even if it isn’t the way I pictured it.
The tears start falling down my cheeks before I even realize I’m crying.
I slide down to the floor, pressing the test to my chest, and let myself sob, not out of fear or regret but out of sheer, fierce relief that there will finally be someone in this world who is mine. My tiny, unexpected miracle.
Monday morning comes too quickly. I hardly sleep Sunday night, lying awake with my hands resting over my stomach even though nothing has changed outwardly. I keep thinking about the life inside me. The tiny heartbeat that will grow. The future I hadn’t expected. The strange sense of hope unfurling like a warm ribbon in my chest.
I go to work, still pretending everything is normal, even though my life is now so much more incredible than I could have imagined. I probably could have called out sick to give myself more time to process the news, but my kids need me. Because no matter what’s happening in my body or my life, my students come first.
Unfortunately, the day quickly becomes overwhelming. Every tiny sound grates on my nerves. Every smell in the hallways makes me want to throw up. I can barely eat the lunch I actually packed today because I’m too anxious and excited.
By the time the final bell rings, I’m exhausted.
I gather my bags slowly, carefully, mindful of the little baby in my belly. My car is back from the shop now, thank God, so at least I don’t have to run for the bus. I walk toward the parking lot with one arm unconsciously wrapped around my belly, not protecting anything visible but craving the contact.
The winter air bites at my cheeks and my breath fogs in front of me.
I reach my car and dig for my keys. They slip from my fingers and clatter to the asphalt. I crouch to grab them.
When I stand, someone is there.
My heart stops.
He steps out from behind my car exactly the way he’s done a dozen times in my nightmares.
He looks around casually, as if we’re just two coworkers crossing paths in a parking lot instead of a predator and his terrified witness. He’s somehow even more intimidating in the light of day than he was the night he attacked me.
“You really are a pretty little thing,” he murmurs, stepping closer. His voice is exactly the same as the night I heard it in the alley. Cold, sharp, and cruel. “Looks like you made it out all right.”
My throat closes. I can’t move. My back hits the driver’s side door before I realize I’m backing away.
“I didn’t say anything to anyone,” I manage. My voice sounds wrong. Too thin. Too hollow.