Page 42 of Now and Then

“Yes.” I nod. “He was shocked. So was I. Hell, he had already accepted a job in New York and was packed to leave that weekend. We didn’t know how we would raise a baby, especially being a country apart from each other. But we talked about it. Really talked. And we decided that even if we weren’t together anymore, we’d figure it out for the baby. He left for New York, and I kept him updated on the pregnancy.”

I pick up a plate that’s already clean and rinse it again, wishing I didn’t have to remember the next part.

“Ten days after the positive pregnancy test, my dad passed away. There was so much to do for the funeral, and everyone was so overwhelmed with grief that I decided it was best to keep the pregnancy to myself.”

Greer sets the towel down, stepping next to me, a bank against the raging river of memories inside me.

“Losing my dad made me embrace the baby even more. I read everything. Downloaded apps. I took prenatal vitamins and even stopped drinking coffee.” A small shrug. “I told myself if I did everything right, this baby would be okay, and the joy from it would carry me through the grief of losing my dad and breaking up with Brandon.”

“And then?” Greer whispers.

I swallow.

“And then one night, I woke up.”

Six years ago.

I wake up from a dull ache in my stomach. Not sharp or alarming. Just uncomfortable. I shift onto my side and pull the blanket higher, half-asleep logic telling me it’s nothing. Cramping is totally normal. I’d read that in about every pregnancy book and magazine. After a few minutes, I drift back into a restless sleep.

A stronger ache jolts me from sleep again, like someone wringing out a towel inside me. I press my palm to my abdomen and breathe through it, counting the way the pregnancy app suggested for stress. Inhale four. Hold four. Exhale four.

Another cramp hits. Even stronger this time. I push myself upright, moving carefully, like sudden motion might make things worse. The room is dark except for the digital glow of the clock. 3:11 a.m.

It’s fine. Everything is fine, I tell myself. Bodies do strange things at night. Maybe it was something I ate for dinner. I swing my legs over the side of the bed—and feel it.

A sticky warmth between my legs.

Not sweat or heat from the blankets. Something else. My stomach drops before my mind catches up.

I stand too fast.

The room tilts.

I steady myself against the dresser and walk to the bathroom, each step slow, like I can outwait what I already know.

The light flicks on. Harsh and unforgiving.

I look down.

Blood.

Enough that I can’t rationalize it away.

For a second, everything inside me goes very, very quiet.

This isn’t part of the plan.

I grip the edge of the counter and stare at my reflection. My face looks pale. Detached. Like I’m watching someone else. This could be a normal part of pregnancy. Some women bleed. I read that. I grab my phone with shaking hands and search what this could mean.

Another cramp doubles me over. And that’s when the logic breaks through the pain. I’m losing my baby.

“No,” I whisper to the empty bathroom. “No, no, no. This can’t be happening.”

I tell myself to breathe. To wait. That it will stop.

It doesn’t.

At that moment, standing alone in a too-bright light, gripping the marble counter, I understand something I’ve never understood before.