chapter 2
1230 Words
Six weeks later, I was staring at two pink lines and wondering if this was what dying felt like.
The pregnancy test trembled in my hands as I sat on my tiny bathroom floor. I'd bought three different brands, hoping one would tell me what I wanted to hear. Instead, they all screamed the same truth: *Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant.*
"No, no, no," I whispered, but the lines didn't care about my denial.
My period was never late. Ever. I'd been telling myself it was stress from the breakup with Marcus, from job hunting, from trying to piece my life back together after that night I'd sworn to forget.
Except I hadn't forgotten. Not really.
I still woke up some mornings reaching for him, expecting to find warm skin and that cologne that haunted my dreams. Still caught myself looking for dark hair and storm-colored eyes in crowds.
And now...
I pressed my hand to my still-flat stomach. There was a person in there. A tiny person made from whiskey and rain and the most beautiful mistake of my life.
*Damien.*
I'd spent weeks trying to find him. Went back to Murphy's Dive six times, asking the bartender, the regulars, anyone who'd listen. Described him until the words felt meaningless. Dark hair, brown eyes, scar on his shoulder. The bartender just shrugged. "Could be anyone, sweetheart."
I'd even tried googling "Damien car accident scar," like some kind of digital stalker. Nothing.
He'd vanished like he was never there at all.
Except now I had proof he was very, very real.
---
"Elena Marie Hart, what did you just say?"
My mother's voice could cut glass when she was angry. Right now, it could probably cut diamonds.
I sat across from my parents in their pristine living room, where everything was beige and perfect and nothing ever got messy. Unlike their daughter.
"I said I'm pregnant, Mom."
Dad's face had gone an alarming shade of purple. He hadn't spoken since I'd dropped the bomb five minutes ago.
"How?" Mom's voice was barely above a whisper. "How could you do this to us?"
"Well, when two people—"
"Don't." Dad's voice boomed through the room. "Don't you dare get smart with us, young lady."
I flinched. I was twenty-two, but I still felt like a kid when he used that tone.
"Who's the father?" Mom asked, leaning forward like she was about to pounce.
I'd practiced this answer. "Someone I met. It was... brief."
"Brief?" Mom's laugh was sharp. "You had a one-night stand?"
I stared at my hands. "It wasn't like that."
"Then what was it like?" Dad demanded. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like our daughter has become a—"
"Richard!" Mom snapped.
"What, Linda? She's acting like a common—"
"Don't." I stood up, my heart pounding. "Don't you dare call me names."
"Then don't give us reasons to," Dad shot back.
The room fell silent except for the ticking of their antique clock. I used to love that sound when I was little. Now it felt like a countdown to disaster.
"What's his name?" Mom asked quietly.
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters to us."
"He doesn't know." The words came out flat. "And he's not going to."
Dad's face got even redder. "So you're going to raise a bastard child alone?"
"Richard!" Mom gasped.
"That's what it is, Linda. Our daughter got knocked up by some stranger and now wants us to pretend it's fine."
Tears burned my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. "I didn't come here for your approval. I came to tell you because you're my parents and I thought you should know."
"Well, now we know," Dad said coldly. "And here's what's going to happen. You're going to get rid of it."
"What?"
"You heard me. There are clinics. Places that handle these... situations."
I stared at him like he'd grown a second head. "I'm not getting an abortion."
"Then adoption," Mom said quickly. "There are good families who can't have children. You could give this baby a proper home."
"This baby has a proper home. With me."
Dad laughed, but it wasn't funny. "You? Elena, you can barely take care of yourself. You're unemployed, living in that shoebox apartment, and now you want to add a baby to the mix?"
"I'll figure it out."
"With what money? What job? What support?" He leaned forward. "Because if you think we're going to help you raise your mistake, you're wrong."
The word 'mistake' hit me like a slap. I stood up, my whole body shaking.
"This baby isn't a mistake."
"It's a sin," Mom whispered. "Elena, what you did... having relations with a stranger... it's against everything we raised you to believe."
"I'm twenty-two years old. What I do with my body is my choice."
"Not when you come crawling back to us for help," Dad snapped.
"I'm not crawling anywhere." My voice was steadier than I felt. "I'm telling you I'm having a baby. Your grandchild."
"No." Mom shook her head. "No grandchild of mine will be born out of wedlock to some... some random man you picked up in a bar."
The truth stung because it was partially accurate. But it was also so much more than that.
"So that's it?" I asked. "You're going to turn your back on me because I'm not perfect anymore?"
Dad stood up, his face stone. "You made your choice, Elena. Now live with it. But don't expect us to watch you destroy your life and embarrass this family any further."
"Richard," Mom said softly, but she didn't contradict him.
I looked between them—these people who'd raised me, who'd tucked me in and kissed my scraped knees and taught me to pray before meals. Now they looked at me like I was a stranger. A shameful stranger.
"Fine," I whispered. "If that's how you feel, then I guess there's nothing left to say."
I walked to the door, my legs feeling like they might give out.
"Elena." Mom's voice stopped me. For a second, I thought she might take it back. Might choose me over their pride.
"If you change your mind... about the adoption... call us. We can help arrange something private. Discrete."
I turned to look at her one last time. She was crying, but she didn't move toward me.
"I won't change my mind," I said quietly. "This is my baby. And I'm going to love them enough for all of us."
I walked out and didn't look back.
---
I sat in my car in their driveway for ten minutes, crying until I couldn't breathe. Then I drove home to my tiny apartment and sat on my couch, staring at the pregnancy test I'd left on the coffee table.
Two pink lines.
A baby.
My baby.
I was alone, broke, and scared out of my mind. But as I pressed my hand to my stomach again, something fierce and protective rose up in my chest.
"It's just us now," I whispered. "But we're going to be okay. I promise."
Outside, it started to rain.
I closed my eyes and tried not to think about storm-colored eyes and gentle hands and a voice that had called me "exactly enough."
Some promises are easier to make than keep.
But this one? This one I'd die before breaking.
- Writer
