Page 75 of Always Been You
I exhale, running a hand through my hair. “Well, for starters, I was going through a rough breakup, then finding love and trying to keep the love, all while working. I agree I was stressed, but I don’t think I’m that sick.” My voice lowers. “Am I dying?”
And then she laughs.
Not just a chuckle. A full-blown, straight-from-the-belly laugh.
I stare at her, horrified.
“No, you are not dying,” she finally says, wiping at her eyes. “I was just pulling your leg. Congratulations are in order.”
I blink. “Uh… thanks? You’ll definitely be invited to the wedding—”
“Not that.” She smiles. “I’m congratulating you on your baby.”
My entire body goes still.
“Excuse me. What?”
“You’re eleven weeks pregnant.”
Her words land like a meteor, knocking the air out of my lungs. I sit there, staring at her, my mind blank.
Pregnant.
I instinctively placed a hand on my stomach, my fingers splayed across the fabric of my dress.
“How is that possible?” My voice is barely above a whisper. “You said I couldn’t get pregnant.”
Dr. Penrose’s expression softens. “No, I said you had no issues. I suggested checking your husband—now ex.”
I feel the blood drain from my face.
“So you mean..." I trail off, realization crashing over me.
She nods.
My mind spins. My thoughts go everywhere at once. Everything I’ve done these past eleven weeks, everything I’ve read about what pregnant women shouldn’t do.
“I’ve been drinking. And wearing heels. And… and...”
“The baby is healthy,” she reassures me. “Your fatigue and weakness are likely due to increased energy demands and changes in blood volume. You have low iron levels and a vitamin deficiency, according to your report, which is common in early pregnancy. I’ll prescribe prenatal vitamins with iron and folic acid to support both you and the baby.”
I let out a shaky breath.
I’m having a baby.
With Eddie.
It finally sinks in, and the thought sends a deep, undeniable warmth spreading through my chest.
I’m having a baby.
For so long, I let go of the idea. I buried it deep because wanting something that felt impossible was a kind of pain I wasn’t willing to hold onto. I told myself it was fine, that not being able to conceive wasn’t the end of the world. That I could still live a full, happy life without children.
But now... now, I know I lied to myself.
Because in this moment, with the truth in my hands, I feel a kind of joy I don’t think I’ve ever known before. It’s terrifying, earth-shattering, and so, so overwhelming, but beneath all that, there’s peace. A deep, quiet kind of peace I never thought I’d get to feel.
And then, just as quickly, the fear creeps in.
