From across the room, Caleb glanced at me.
He was sitting on the couch, scrolling through his phone, close enough to hear every word.
“He’s busy with work,” I said.
Vivian paused.
“That isn’t what I asked, sweetheart.”
Caleb’s eyes lifted.
I turned toward the kitchen.
“He’s doing his best.”
The silence on the other end stretched.
Then Vivian said quietly, “Sometimes a man’s best is still not enough.”
I had no idea what to say to that.
So I changed the subject.
I asked about the baby blanket she had been knitting. She told me it was almost finished. Pink and cream, with tiny flowers along the edge.
“I might bring it by this weekend,” she said.
Panic flickered through me.
This weekend meant she might see something. Notice something. Ask questions I was no longer strong enough to dodge.
“That’s sweet,” I said quickly, “but we’re really busy. Maybe next week.”
Caleb looked satisfied.
Vivian didn’t.
“All right,” she said. “Next week, then.”
But there was something in her voice that made me uneasy.
That night, a storm rolled in.
Rain slapped against the windows so hard the glass rattled. Thunder moved over the city in long, angry waves.
At 10:42 p.m., Caleb stood in the bedroom doorway holding my cardigan.
“Laundry room.”
I looked toward the window.
“Caleb, it’s storming.”
“You’ll be inside.”
“The laundry room floods when it rains hard. You know that.”
He shrugged.
“Put your feet up.”
I stared at him.
For the first time in weeks, anger rose through the exhaustion.
Small, but alive.
“I’m not going down there tonight.”
His expression changed.
“What did you say?”
“I said no.”
The apartment went silent except for the rain.
Caleb stepped closer.
“Mara, don’t start.”
“I’m in pain. I’m scared. I’m tired. And I’m not sleeping in a laundry room during a storm.”
He laughed once, cold and humorless.
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being pregnant.”
“No,” he said. “You’re being selfish.”
That word took the air from my lungs.
Selfish.
Because I wanted a bed.
Because I wanted safety.
Because I wanted the man who had promised to love me to treat me like a human being.
My hand moved to my belly.
Caleb saw it and sighed.
“Don’t use the baby to win an argument.”
I whispered, “I’m not.”
He tossed the cardigan at my feet.
“Then go.”
For a long moment, I didn’t move.
Then lightning flashed bright across the room, and something inside me folded.
I picked up the cardigan.
I picked up my pillow.
And I walked out again.
The laundry room was worse than usual.
Water had seeped under the back door and spread across the floor in a thin, cold sheet. The bench was dry, but the air felt wet enough to drink.
I sat down slowly, trying not to slip.
My belly tightened.
Once.
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