Page 55 of Omega's Fire

“I’ve got something else that would be perfect for you though,” she continues brightly. “It wraps up in December, just before you’re due. Much more manageable for someone in your position.”

“That sounds... great,” I manage, the words sticking in my throat.

We discuss details for another few minutes, but I’m barely listening. It’s clear from how she is speaking, ever so kindly, that the internship is going to end on the day that I become a father.

I excuse myself as soon as possible and stumble to the bathroom, where I promptly throw up everything I’ve eaten today. The pregnancy nausea is bad enough without the stress making it worse.

I spend the rest of the day going through the motions of the work day. By evening, I feel wrung out and hollow. The disappointment from Wallace’s gentle dismissal mixes with the shame from Meg’s accusations, creating a toxic cocktail of self-loathing.

I’m so lost in my misery that I almost don’t notice the chaos on my street until I’m right in the middle of it.

Police cars line the block, their flashing lights painting everything in harsh red and blue. Officers in tactical gear have cordoned off my building, and there’s a massive dumpster in the middle of the road, already half-full of furniture and belongings.

The eviction. It’s happening right now. I thought I had more time.

“Can’t go in there, sir,” an officer says, stepping into my path. “Building’s being cleared by court order.”

“I live here,” I say, panic rising in my throat. “My things are inside.”

“Personal items are being sorted over there.” He gestures toward a pathetic pile of belongings on the sidewalk. “Anything not claimed gets disposed of.”

I scan the heap frantically, but nothing looks familiar. “My laptop?” I say, voice cracking. The officer shrugs. “If it’s not in the pile, it’s in the dumpster.”

I watch in horror as more officers emerge from the building, carrying garbage bags that they toss carelessly into the dumpster. Years of work, thousands of dollars in textbooks, our lives treated like trash.

Without thinking, I rush toward the dumpster. The officer shouts something, but I ignore him, scrambling up the metal side and dropping into the chaos below.

The stench hits me immediately: rotting food and mildew. But I push deeper, digging frantically through the filth. This is it. I have finally hit rock bottom in my life: pregnant, homeless, jobless and digging in a dumpster.

There. The corner of my constitutional law textbook, wedged under a broken chair. My laptop bag, thank god, still intact.

“Leo! What in God’s name are you doing? Get out of there this instant!”

I look up, disoriented, to find my mother standing at the edge of the dumpster.

She looks older than when I saw her last. There are more lines at the corners of her eyes and her hair is gray. She’s still perfectly styled though, hair and clothes. Some things never change.

She’s looking at me like she’s about to cry.

“Mom?” I stare at her in shock. “What are you doing here?”

“I came looking for you after I got your email,” she says, extending a manicured hand. “About the pregnancy. Please, sweetheart, let me help you up before you hurt yourself.”

I let her pull me out, suddenly aware of how I must look. Garbage clinging to my clothes, stench coating my skin, tears streaming down my face. My mother’s eyes widen as she takes in my appearance, lingering on the curve of my belly that’s impossible to hide now.

“Oh, my baby,” she whispers, and the endearment breaks something inside me. “Look at you. I know you didn’t want to talk to me after all that with your father but—”

Her mouth turns down at the corners and for one horrifying moment, I think she’s about to start bawling. But then I see her steel herself and a deep breath.

“You’re going to be a father. You’re carrying my grandbaby. That’s what matters now. You need to stop being so stubborn and come home. After the baby’s born and you’re back on your feet, you can go back to being as stubborn as your father was but not now. Now you need to come home.”

The words spill out of her quickly as if she’s been keeping them inside for a long time.

I clutch my salvaged belongings, acutely aware of how little I have left. I shake my head, “Mom, I can’t. You know I can’t.”

“No, what you mean is that you won’t.”

“I just need a little time to work out how to fix it.”

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