Page 28 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

The results appear instantly. I find one with available appointments later this week. My thumb hovers over the ‘Book Now’ button. It feels like defusing a bomb. One click, and the crisis will be averted.

I take a shaky breath and click.

A confirmation pops up.

Friday, 8:00 AM.

Relief should wash over me. But it doesn’t. Instead, a profound wave of emptiness hits me, so intense it makes me nauseous again. I picture the tiny cluster of cells inside me, a microscopic flicker of potential life.

Leo’s life. My life.

A life I’m scheduling for termination like a problematic client contract.

I spend the next two days working from home in a fog. I go through the motions... client calls, emails, drafting press releases, but my mind is elsewhere. Every twinge, every wave of nausea, is a reminder.

Friday looms.

And then, on Friday morning, I get dressed mechanically. Sensible flats, dark trousers, a loose-fitting blouse. Anonymous.

I grab my purse, my keys. The clinic address is programmed into my phone’s GPS.

Walking towards the subway station, the city feels different. Sharper, louder. Every passing stroller seemslike a personal affront. Every laughing child a tiny accusation.

I take the subway, reach the street harboring the clinic. I’m walking toward it. Almost there.

Then I see her.

She’s waiting at the crosswalk just ahead of me. A young woman, close to my age, probably running late for some meeting judging by her slightly harried expression. She’s juggling a coffee, a work tote, and the hand of a little girl, maybe three or four years old, with bright pigtails bouncing around her head. The little girl is chattering excitedly about a pigeon, pointing with fierce concentration. The mother glances down, her expression softening instantly into a look of such pure, unadulterated love and amusement that it stops me in my tracks.

In that single, unguarded moment, I see it. The exhaustion, yes, but also the joy. The connection. The fierce, all-consuming love that radiates between them, creating a bubble of warmth on a busy city street. It’s not perfect, it’s probably messy and hard, but it’sreal.

And I want it.

I want it so badly it aches. I want the messy, the hard, the exhausting, the joyful. I want the sticky fingers and the bedtime stories and the first steps. I want the unconditional love, the fierce protectiveness I already feel stirring inside me for this tiny, unwanted miracle.

My own childhood may have been fractured, defined by the absence of a father, but maybe… maybe I can do better. Maybe I can create something different for this child. Maybe being a single mother doesn’t have to mean struggle and sacrifice, the way it did for my mom. Maybe it can mean strength, resilience, and a love so powerful it fills all the empty spaces.

Maybe I don’t have to repeat the pattern.

Right there, on the corner of DeKalb and Fulton, amidst the morning rush, I make my decision.

I turn around.

I walk away from the clinic, away from the easy, practical solution.

I pull out my phone, fingers steady now, and cancel the appointment.

Reason for cancellation?the app prompts.

I type:Change of plans.

A massive understatement.

Walking back toward the subway, the city doesn’t seem so hostile anymore. The fear is still there, a cold knot in my stomach. The anxiety about money, about my career, about telling my mother, about doing this alone… it’s all still very real. But underneath it, something else is growing. Resolve. A fierce, protective determination I didn’t know I possessed.

This is my baby.Ourbaby, technically, but he’ll never know. This is my secret. My responsibility. My choice.

I’ll figure it out. I’ll have to. I’ll work harder, save more, plan better. I’ll build a fortress of love and stability around this child. She’ll never, ever feel the sting of abandonment. She’ll know she is wanted, cherished. That she’s enough.

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