Page 65 of Brutal for It
I shake my head, tears blurring my vision. “I’m terrified.”
“Good,” she says. “Means you care.”
That night, I sit on the edge of the bed with my journal open.
I write my truth. I’m pregnant. I don’t know how to feel. I finish the page, the same way I have been since starting to journal: I didn’t use today.
I stare at the words until they stop shaking.
The cravings come hard — not just for drugs but for escape. I can almost feel the weight of it, that old familiar promise of silence. But there’s another voice now, small and steady inside me.
You’re not alone anymore.
Tommy’s voice drifts from the kitchen. He’s humming under his breath, something low and tuneless. He doesn’t know yet, and the thought makes me ache.
I trace a hand over my stomach, still flat, still unreal. “Who are you?” I whisper. “Why now?”
There’s no answer, just the sound of rain starting against the window.
I close the journal and make myself a promise.
Tomorrow, I’ll tell him.
The next morning, Jenni insists on driving me to the clinic. “We’ll get an ultrasound,” she says. “It’ll help you see things clearer.”
I don’t argue. My stomach churns all the way there.
The nurse is kind, her voice practiced gentle. She doesn’t flinch when she sees the faint scars on my arms. “We’ve seen everything, honey” she says. “You’re safe here. If it’s early we may have to do the transvaginal, but if you haven’t had your period in two months or more, we should be good this way.” When she presses the cold gel to my skin, I hold my breath. The room fills with static, then a faint, rapid sound — like wings fluttering underwater.
“That’s the heartbeat,” she says.
Jenni grips my hand, tears shining in her eyes.
I can’t look away from the screen. It’s just a shadow, a flicker of light, but it’s real.
My heart breaks and rebuilds in the same moment.
I cry quietly, not from fear this time, but from awe.
The nurse prints a picture and hands it to me. “Healthy so far.”
She mumbles about weeks and it all gets lost in my head. The print out tells me my timeline. She shares my anticipated due date. The thoughts hits like ice water, but beneath the fear there’s something else — determination.
Whatever happens, whoever this child belongs to biologically, I’m their mother. And I’m not running anymore.
Back at the house, Jenni makes tea and sits with me on the porch.
“You need to tell him soon,” she says.
“I know.”
“Do you want me there?”
“No. This is something I have to say myself.”
She nods. “Then I’ll wait by the phone if you need me.”
When she leaves, I sit there for a long time, staring at the photo in my lap.
