Page 22 of Angel
Proud of you.
Not,"You'll be fine, we’ll fix this, or we’ll try harder.”Just pride.
For what?
For not running?
For admitting I’m scared.
For not opening the app?
For staying?
Tears slip down my temples into my hair. Quiet ones this time. The kind that don’t steal your breath. Maybe this is what letting someone in feels like.
Not dramatic.
Not explosive.
Just steady and warm.
We make the call the next morning. Angel drives over early. He doesn’t make it a big deal. Doesn’t bring coffee or jokes or distraction. He just sits beside me at the kitchen table. His knee bounces slightly. I can see the tension in his jaw.
He’s nervous too. That makes me feel less alone. I put the therapist’s number on speaker. My hands shake when I dial. A woman answers. Her voice is calm. Kind. Professional without being distant.
“How can I help?”
I swallow.
“My name is Stevie,” I say. My voice wobbles but doesn’t break. “My husband and I… we’ve experienced recurrent pregnancy loss.”
There. Said. Out loud.
Angel’s hand finds mine under the table. He squeezes once. Grounding me without thought. The receptionist doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t fill the silence with platitudes.
“I’m so sorry,” she says gently. “You’re not alone in that.”
The words don’t feel hollow. She offers an appointment for the following week.
I almost say no.
Almost tell her we need more time.
More preparation.
More… something.
But Angel’s hand tightens around mine again.
Steady.
Present.
“That works,” I hear myself say.
She gives us details. Time. Location. What to expect. When the call ends, I sit there staring at the phone like it might explode.
“Well,” Angel says softly.
