Page 29 of Never Distract a Biker

"Doctor, I … I’ve only ever been with a man once, and I took the morning-after pill," I whisper, gripping the edge of my seat until my knuckles turn white. "I did everything right."

"These things happen, even with precautions. The morning-after pill isn't a guarantee." She explains, her tone even, threading compassion through clinical facts, "While the morning-after pill is effective, it isn't absolute."

“Even if I have only been with a man once, and I took precautions after?” I ask again foolishly.

“Pregnancy is not a gradual process.” She explains calmly as though talking to a child. “You may engage in sexual activitiesmultiple times, but it is just a single encounter in those that will get you pregnant. And, like I said, nothing is foolproof when it comes to contraception. Unfortunately, there's always a small chance."

My face is hot, and a tumult of emotions roils within me. Disbelief battles with a dawning realization and a sense of betrayal from my own body. How could it have failed me at a time like this?

“Can you remember when you had this encounter?”

"Two months ago," I murmur, the reality slowly settling in. "But I saw my period after the encounter."

"It must have been implantation bleeding." she explains that some women experiences slight bleeding around the time of their next period as that is when the fertilized egg is burrowing into the womb.

There's life growing inside of me—a secret life born from a night I've tried so hard to forget.

"Are you alright? she asks, concern knitting her brow.

"I don't know," I admit, my voice quivering. "I just ... I need a moment."

"Take your time," she says gently.

I sit in stunned silence. A baby. A stranger's baby. My thoughts swirl chaotically as I try to grasp the strings of my unraveling world.

“I will order a scan for us to be sure how far gone you are.”

I nod, barely processing her words. My hands drift to my abdomen, flat and unassuming, yet suddenly the epicenter of my existence. The reality of it presses down on me, heavy as the silence that fills the room.

"We'll schedule some follow-up appointments and discuss prenatal care."

"Okay," I whisper, my gaze dropping to my fingers, which trace small circles over the fabric of my shirt. There's life there, a life that's part of me—part of whatever his name is. Fear clashes with wonder, my mind warring with the idea of this tiny being inside.

"Scarlett?" She pulls me out of my thoughts.

I look up, meeting her caring and understanding eyes.

"Thank you," I manage to say, though gratitude is a complex emotion right now. It's not just for her professionalism but for the patience shining in her gaze.

I stand, a slow and deliberate rise that echoes the decision solidifying in my heart. The room seems to shrink around me, the walls closing in like they're pressing this truth onto myshoulders: I'm going to be a mother. There's no one left but me to carry on our family line, to hold onto the love and memories that have defined my life. This baby, an unexpected spark in the bleakness, will be my legacy, my family.

"My only family," I murmur, conviction steadying my shaky legs. My fingers linger on my stomach, and the knowledge of life inside makes the touch feel like a promise. With new-found energy, I make my way back to the oncology department.

"Mom," I whisper, standing by her bedside. The need to tell her presses against my lips, news too big to keep inside any longer.

"Mom," I say again, stronger now. "I have something to tell you."

Her eyelids flutter open, and I wait for the fog of medication to clear from her gaze. There's recognition there, the kind that anchors me when the seas of uncertainty threaten to drown me. She looks at me, really sees me, and in that gaze, I find the courage I need to speak.

"I'm pregnant," I tell her, the words tasting like a blend of fear and hope. Her hand finds mine and she gives me a tiny squeeze that says more than words ever could. It's not just comfort; it's strength. Her strength, flows into me, telling me I can do this, telling me that I’ve got this.

"I'm going to have a baby," I say again as if to convince myself. Her eyes, pools of love and pain, lock onto mine, and I see the woman who raised me, unyielding even now.

There's no verbal response—none is needed. It's in the way she squeezes my hand back, a lifeline thrown across the chasm of her illness. She knows, and somehow, it feels like permission to hope.

Tears blur my vision, emotions swelling like a tide within me, but they don't fall. They're held back by the determination that fills the spaces between us.

The faintest of smiles touches her lips, a silent echo to the joy I've just unleashed. Her hand—still in mine—feels like a lifeline as she gives it yet another weak squeeze.

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