He’d found me, across the country.
Alex held me for a long time.
I shook my head, denying his question. “It’s
just… habit.”
Habitual deference, putting myself beneath
him.
L
Just like he had, years ago.
Alex kissed my forehead, his hand brushing
over my stomach, changing the subject.
“Was this what you wanted to tell me when I
got back?”
He’d found me, so he knew what had
happened before I left.
This baby was a shock.
He’d always hated kids, hated his mother for
trying to use a child to trap his father, and
hated her for resenting him.
This child wasn’t something he’d planned.
My situation was similar to his mother’s
Г
If he thought about it, he might connect me
to her.
And he hated her.
“Honey, I don’t like kids. I only like you. I don’t
want a child between us.”
He touched my stomach again. “A baby
should be born into a family that wants it.
And I don’t.”
I looked down, reciting the words I’d
rehearsed. “This baby is my only family. If you
don’t want it, I’ll raise it myself. You’ll never
see us again.”
Alex held grudges. So did I.
I’d already dealt with the people who’d kicked
me when I was down.
I’d graduated, I didn’t need to be tied to one
city. I could survive without him, without his
deliberate constraints.
Alex’s arms tightened. His voice was strained.
“That’s not what I meant.”
I looked up, meeting his gaze.
“If you want this baby, I’ll learn to be a good
father.
Sarah, please… trust me a little more.
I will never hurt you.”
The trip was still on.
L
With a slight change of plans. He went with
me for the blood test and ultrasound.
On the screen, the seven–week–old embryo
looked like a blueberry.
The doctor said there was a heartbeat.
This time, I really heard it.
Five years after losing my parents, I had
another family member.
The relentless autumn rain hadn’t stopped
when I left the South.
The contact information for the pregnant
neighbor on my phone confirmed that my
two–week escape wasn’t a delusion.
く
Back in D.C., the apartment was exactly as I’d
left it.
The glass of water on the table was
undisturbed.
My slippers by the door were askew, as if I’d
just stepped out for a quick errand, expecting
to be back in minutes.
I sat on the sofa, feeling disoriented.
The cloying humidity was gone.
D.C. was dry. My throat was parched. I sipped
the water slowly.
Alex took off his jacket and went into the
kitchen.
He called out, “Sarah, can you tie my apron?”
Everything was back to normal.
Three days later, Alex went to work as usual. I
stayed home, trying a new dessert recipe.
I’d found a “super easy” cake online and
gathered the ingredients, starting with the
flour.
My phone rang.
A local number I didn’t recognize.
I washed my hands, wondering if I’d ordered
something online. Maybe it was a delivery
driver.
I answered, and a man’s voice said my name.
“Sarah Miller?”
I added another spoonful of flour to the bowl,
carefully following the recipe.
“We need to talk. About Alex.”
Exactly 50 grams.
Next, the butter.
“Who is this?”
