The motel was cheap and anonymous. Just the way she wanted it. Just the way she thought she needed it.
She stared at the ceiling, one hand resting on her flat
belly, the other clutching a half-warm bottle of ginger ale. The nausea hadn’t
passed, not after two days of bland crackers and restless sleep.
She hadn’t cried yet.
Not when she left.
Not when she crossed the state line.
Not even when she heard Anthony’s laugh in a passing child
and had to sit down on a curb to breathe again.
But the little blue line on the stick?
That shattered her.
Andrea sat on the floor of the motel bathroom, back pressed
to the door, knees drawn to her chest. The test lay in the sink. Positive.
Unmistakably so.
She laughed—and then it turned to sobs.
Of course.
Of course she was pregnant.
Of course she had created life again in the middle of
a storm she couldn’t control.
Her body was creating something beautiful while her mind
unraveled.
She didn’t know if it was Doc’s or the universe’s cruel
poetry, but the irony stung. Because this time—unlike with Anthony—she was
loved. Wanted. Safe.
And she ran anyway.
She touched her belly, still so soft and unchanged. But her
heart knew. Her body already knew. There was someone else growing inside her
now, someone who hadn’t asked for this chaos.
You didn’t ask to be born into this mess, she
whispered.
But then again, neither had she.
Andrea pulled herself up slowly, walked to the bed, and
crawled beneath the scratchy sheets. She wrapped her arms around her stomach
like she was cradling more than just a cluster of cells—like she was cradling
hope, and guilt, and the slow realization that she couldn’t outrun the people
who loved her.
Especially not the man who would drop everything to be by
her side if he only knew.
And Anthony?
God, Anthony.
How do you tell your child you left, and you’re sorry, and
you never stopped loving them—not even for a breath?
She closed her eyes, tears soaking the pillow. She knew what
she had to do.
She had to go back but she wasn’t ready.
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