Page 31 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

“And you’re wearing that heavy sweater indoors...” she observes mildly. “Are you feeling chilly?”

Busted.

There’s no point.

The charade is over.

The carefully planned reveal, the gentle breaking of the news... all out the window.

Might as well rip off the Band-Aid.

I sigh, dropping the fake smile. I place my water glass on the counter and turn to face her fully, letting the bulky sweater hang loose. There’s no hiding the pronounced curve of my belly now. Seven months pregnant is not subtle.

My mother’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. Her hand flies to her mouth, stifling a gasp. The color drains from her face. “Sabrina… oh, honey… are you…?”

I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. Tears prickle behind my eyes again.

Damn hormones.

She stares at my stomach, then back at my face, her expression a maelstrom of shock, confusion, and something that looks painfully like disappointment. “But… how? When? Who…?”

“About seven months,” I say softly, finally finding my voice.

“Seven months?” Her voice is barely a whisper. “And you didn’ttellme?” The hurt in her eyes is a physical blow.

“I… I didn’t know how,” I stammer, feeling like a guilty teenager again. “I wanted to wait for the right time.”

Liar. You wanted to wait until forever.

She stands up slowly, walking towards me. She stops a few feet away, her gaze fixed on my belly. “Who’s the father, Sabrina?” Her voice is quiet now, but steel underlies the tone.

This is it. The moment of truth. Or, rather, the moment of carefully constructed fiction.

“It… it was someone I was seeing briefly,” I begin, reciting the cover story I’d mentally rehearsed a thousand times. “Right after I started the firm. It wasn’t serious. He, uh… he moved abroad. For work. Before I even knew I was pregnant.”

“Moved abroad?” She raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Where?”

“Australia,” I improvise quickly. “Got a big job offer. Happened really fast.”

Oh god, she’s not buying it.

My mother looks me straight in the eye, her gaze piercing. I feel like she can see right through theflimsy lie, right down to the terrified truth. But she doesn’t call me out directly.

Instead, her expression hardens, the initial shock replaced by a weary sadness that hurts more than any anger ever could.

“Oh, Sabrina,” she sighs, shaking her head slowly. “Not again. Please tell me you’re not making the same mistakes I did.”

And there it is. The comparison I’ve dreaded my whole life. The fear that I’m doomed to repeat her history... abandoned, raising a child alone, struggling to make ends meet. It hits every single one of my deepest insecurities.

“This isn’t the same, Mom,” I say, my voice rising defensively. “It’s not! I have my own business. I can support myself. I can do this.”

“Alone?” she challenges, her voice sharp now. “Raising a child alone is harder than you can possibly imagine. The sacrifices, the judgment, the constant fear… do you think I wanted that for you? I worked so hard, sacrificed so much, so you wouldn’t have to struggle like I did! So you could have choices! And now… this?” She gestures towards my stomach, her expression laced with disappointment. “A baby out of wedlock, with a father who conveniently disappears to the other side of the world? It sounds awfully familiar, doesn’t it?”

Her words land like blows. Every fear I have about single motherhood, every insecurity rooted in my father’s abandonment, rises to the surface. I feel cornered, judged, misunderstood. The careful control I maintain cracks.

I lower my eyes. “You don’t understand. This isn’t about repeating your mistakes.” But then I meet her gaze again, feeling a surge of defiance. “This ismychoice.Mylife. Andmybaby.” The last words come out fierce. Possessive.

“And the father?” she presses. “Does this man in ‘Australia’ even know? Are you going to tell him?”

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