Seven Months and a Thousand Miles

Andrea stood at the edge of the long gravel driveway, her hands shaking as they gripped the steering wheel. The house hadn’t changed. Still warm-colored, still quiet, still somehow his. A sanctuary built from gentleness and coffee spoons, where she had once felt safe.

But this time, she wasn’t just carrying secrets. She was visibly, unmistakably carrying life.

Seven months.

She’d felt every day of it in her bones.

There were kicks that came at night, pressing against the inside of her ribs like reminders. A tiny heel, maybe. A stretch, a roll. Her child—their child—was active. Strong. Restless like her.

She sat in the parked car for a long time before she moved. The sun was dipping low, golden light streaking through the windows. She saw movement inside—Joe, probably. Maybe Doc. Maybe even...

Her breath caught in her throat.

Anthony.

Her sweet, wild boy. He was older now. Bigger. Smarter. And he hadn’t seen her in months. Would he even recognize her? Would he cry? Would he ask why she left?

You’re here now, she whispered to herself. That has to count for something.

With effort, she stepped out of the car. Her belly led the way, rounding the zipper of her coat. She hadn’t meant to hide for so long, but shame had a way of stretching out time. And fear made the days go quiet.

The front door opened before she even made it halfway up the steps.

Doc.

He looked different. Tired. Older. But still heartbreakingly handsome in that quiet, solid way of his. And the moment he saw her—really saw her—he stopped breathing.

She didn’t say anything. Just placed a hand on her belly and met his gaze.

His eyes dropped. His mouth parted.

Then—like a man pulled from the deep—he rushed forward.

He didn’t say “how could you.” He didn’t ask questions.

He wrapped his arms around her so gently, so reverently, like she was fragile glass he didn’t dare break.

“I didn’t know how to come back,” she whispered, voice cracking against the collar of his shirt.

“You came back,” he said. “That’s enough for right now.”

And as he kissed her temple, her cheek, the corner of her trembling lips, her stomach rolled beneath her hand—and she guided his hand there.

Their baby kicked.

And for the first time in months, Andrea let herself cry into someone else’s chest. Not from fear. But from the unshakeable feeling that she might still get to be forgiven.