Page 8 of Absolution

She goes quiet. Doesn’t speak for the rest of the drive.

Inside, I can feel myself spiralling, but I hold on to one thing: We’re not giving up our kids.

Not one. Not ever.

And we’re getting a new damn doctor.

Chapter Three

Jackie ~June 2013

Twenty-eight weeks.

I’ve made it to twenty-eight weeks, which means I’m officially two months into bedrest and about one hard breath away from completely losing my mind.

I spend all day in this bed, propped up with pillows, under strict orders to stay horizontal unless I’m going to the bathroom or getting weighed like a prize cow. I can’t do laundry. I can’t cook. I can’t even stand long enough to microwave my own damn oatmeal.

My mom comes over almost every day now. So do my siblings. They’ve been doing the grocery runs, wiping down the counters, making me dinner, acting like everything’s totally fine while trying not to look too hard at me lying like roadkill in the middle of it all.

They think Kyle’s working late to prepare for paternity leave. Maybe he is. Or maybe he’s just avoiding me.

He’s been around, sure. But, we haven’t talked, not really, since that car ride. The one where the doctor mentioned selective reduction and Kyle looked at me like I’d already committed murder.

I didn’t want to kill my babies.

God, no.

But the truth, the ugly, terrifying truth, was that I could’ve lost all of them. And myself.

And Kyle didn’t see that. Didn’t want to.

He shut it down so fast, I wasn’t even allowed to be scared. I was supposed to smile, nod, trust nature, trust fate, trust Kyle.

And then the second trimester hit. Hard.

Morning sickness showed up like a late guest with a grudge. I was throwing up everything, toast, crackers, even water some days. My back screamed constantly. My skin stretched. I couldn’t sleep more than an hour without waking up either to pee or cry.

But according toDr. Wonderful, the new OB Kyle insisted on, most of this is "psychosomatic."

Translation: I made it up.

Because of course, it’s all in my head.

The kicker? Kyle told him I had no symptomsbeforethe last doctor warned us about the risks. Now I get "helpful" advice likemaybe if you did more yoga, your nausea would ease up.

Right. Let me get right on the downward dog while carrying four human beings in my uterus and praying I don’t puke on the mat.

But I haven’t told my mom. Or my siblings. Or anyone. Because they’d be pissed. Pissed at Kyle. Pissed at the doctor. Pissed atmefor not standing up for myself.

And I don’t want them to know I even considered it. I did. I was scared. I’m still scared.

But they’re real now. Kicking me awake at 2 a.m., dancing on my bladder during every ultrasound.

They’re mine. I’ve already fallen for them, so hard it hurts tobreathe sometimes. I’ve already named them, though I haven’t told Kyle yet.

Two girls. Two boys.

Jemma. Iris. Duke. Finn.

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