Carried alone, surrounded by love

That afternoon and into evening, Vince and I didn’t talk much. He understood he had a one-in-four chance of being the father of the fetus, but his Catholic faith weighed heavily on him—the classic Catholic guilt. I tried to tell him that this decision was mine alone, that he wasn’t at fault, but the truth was I couldn’t lift that burden for him. There was nothing I could say to erase the guilt that wrapped around him so tightly.

“Do you want to step out to your parish so you can go for confession?” I asked softly, my voice barely above the hum of the house.

He gave a small nod, almost imperceptible. “Yeah, I think I’d like that.”

“Good. Go. Clear your conscience,” I said.

He gathered his keys and wallet, lingering for a moment by the door. “I’ll be back in a bit,” he murmured, as if even saying it out loud made it feel real.

I watched him leave before heading upstairs, needing the solitude of a shower to scrub away the tension that had settled on my shoulders. I dressed in something comfortable and finally made my bed, smoothing out the wrinkles with slow, deliberate movements. Coming downstairs, I sent a text to Aditi to see if I could order food.

Don’t bother ordering, she replied almost immediately. I’ll just bring a bunch of food over in about an hour and a half.

You’re a lifesaver, I replied, smiling at my phone.

I headed to the kitchen, pulled out my mixing bowls, and started making homemade brownies—melting the butter and chocolate together, whisking in sugar, eggs, and vanilla, folding in flour until the batter was thick and glossy. The oven filled with the warm scent of chocolate and vanilla as I poured the batter into a pan and slid it in. While the brownies baked, I set out plates, trays, and utensils for dinner. In the basement, I retrieved a $3,500 bottle of wine I’d been saving for a special occasion—Vince, the oenophile, would appreciate it tonight, and I was hoping it would lift his spirits—and slid it into the freezer to chill.

The doorbell rang just as the oven timer was counting down its last minutes.

I opened the door to find Aditi, grinning, juggling four large paper bags.

“Wow,” I said, stepping aside. “You brought a feast.”

She laughed softly. “Of course. You deserve it, shona.”

As she unpacked the food—butter chicken, paneer tikka masala, vegetable biryani, garlic naan, samosas, chickpea curry, and her mother’s homemade cucumber raita—she explained how feeding people was her and her mother’s love language. I smiled, breathing in the mingled aromas of spices and chocolate.

The brownie timer went off while we were both still in the kitchen. I pulled them out, the edges crisp, the center still soft. I slid them onto a platter, cut them up, and covered them with foil.

“Thank you for bringing all this,” I told her. “You didn’t have to do so much.”

She returned the smile and hugged me warmly. “I love feeding you. It makes me happy.”

When she was leaving, I handed her the brownies. Her eyes widened. “Oh! You made these?”

“Just a little something,” I said softly.

“Thank you, shona,” she said, still holding the platter. She waved goodbye and left, the door clicking shut behind her.

The house felt quiet again. The scent of spices and chocolate lingered, but it was the kind of quiet that made my chest ache with anticipation.

Minutes later, Vince’s key turned in the lock. He stepped inside, kicking his shoes off at the door and tossing his keys and wallet onto the stairs. Without a word, he crossed the room and pulled me into his arms. His mouth found mine in a deep, urgent kiss—hungry, searching, full of longing and unspoken confession. His hands gripped my face, then slid into my hair, pulling me closer as his body pressed into mine.

I melted against him, arms circling his neck, my own need answering his. The kiss deepened until I was dizzy, breathless, my chest tightening with something that was part desire, part sorrow. When he finally broke away, his forehead rested against mine, his breath ragged.

“Thank you for suggesting I go,” he murmured. “I needed that. I feel lighter, somehow. But I still…” His voice faltered. “…I still feel so guilty.”

I touched his cheek, sliding my hand down to his chest. “I know. I can’t take that from you. You’re not alone in this, Vince. Not ever.”

He kissed me again, slower but just as charged, the kind of kiss that lingered in the air long after it broke. “I want to forget everything for a moment. I want to just be with you,” he whispered against my mouth.

“Then we’ll be together,” I murmured back, “right here, right now. No guilt. No outside world. Just us.”

Dinner was quiet at first, but Vince’s mood softened as the wine opened up, his appreciation for it showing in the way he lingered over each sip. By the time we were done, conversation and laughter had found their way back between us. We cleaned up side by side, moving easily around each other.

Afterward, we curled up on the couch and put on my favorite World War II movie, produced by Steven Spielberg. Vince held my hand through much of it, his thumb brushing lightly over my knuckles. When the credits rolled, we were both silent, the weight of the evening and everything between us thick in the air.

We went upstairs to bed, stripping completely before sliding into the cool sheets. Vince pulled me close, chest to chest, arms wrapped tight around me.

“I should tell you something,” he said softly, breath warm against my ear. “After confession and my priest telling me to say a million Hail Marys and only six hundred Our Fathers, he also said I need to make an honest woman out of you and marry you.”

I pressed closer against him. “That’s a lot,” I whispered. “You know my answer for that, Vince.”

“I only said half of both on my way back here but will finish the rest another time. I wish you’d marry me but I know the whole thing with Xavier caused severe PTSD.”

“Go home,” I whispered.

“What? Why?” he asked.

“First, your priest telling you to make an honest woman out of me makes me want to be with you less. Second, we don’t say his name in this house. Third, I will be in therapy for the next five eternities to get over that. And finally, marriage is not my thing and you know that!”

“Babe, I am so sorry,” Vince said as he got up.

He dressed, headed downstairs, stopping briefly for his wallet and keys. He opened the door but then closed it again. I heard his keys jangle for a second; I knew he was taking my house key off his key chain. Then he left. The door closing hurt.

Minutes later, I started cramping. I got out of bed, threw the lights on and saw the blood on my favorite sheets. I immediately tossed the sheets into the washer and started the machine. I packed a bag, my license, the prescription bottle of misoprostol and my insurance card. I headed to the ER.

On my way, I called Sarah—yes, that Sarah, Randy’s ex-wife—and asked her to meet me at the hospital. She immediately agreed without asking questions. I could hear Emma and Max shouting in the background that they’d tag along with her, but Sarah immediately shut the kids down and told them: “No, you’re not going. I was invited, not you.”

She met me right at the ER entrance, eyes scanning my face. “What’s going on?”

“I’m pregnant,” I said flatly. “And I’m not sure who the father is.”

Her voice sharpened. “Is Randy possibly the father?”

“Yes. But this was before you two got back together.”

We checked in, and the nurse led me to a private room. Sarah stayed until they wheeled me to a small private suite upstairs. I told her that I wanted her to stay.

The nurse returned mid-morning with the misoprostol in a paper cup. “This will start the process,” she said gently. “We’ll keep you on monitors for at least five hours.”

I swallowed it, chasing it with water. The cramps began slowly but grew sharp and relentless. The hospital kept me another thirty-six hours—it took every one of them to pass the pregnancy.

Sarah stayed the whole time, stepping out only to make calls. When Randy came to the door, Sarah intercepted him in the hallway before he could step inside.

“She doesn’t want to see you,” she told him firmly, blocking the doorway with her body.

He frowned. “Just for a minute—”

“No,” Sarah said, voice like steel. “Turn around and leave.”

She did the same when Dom arrived hours later, a coffee in his hand.

“Can I just—” he began.

“You can leave,” she cut him off. “She doesn’t want to see you either.”

Dom hesitated, then walked away.

When it was finally over, Sarah drove me home. As soon as I stepped through the door, I froze—my house was spotless.

“Dom came over while you were in the hospital,” Sarah said matter-of-factly. “He cleaned the whole place. When he tried to come see you at the hospital, I took your house key from him.”

Upstairs, she helped me into the shower, then into clean clothes, and finally into bed.

“Do you want me to stay?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Thank you for everything. Can I pay you for helping me?”

She waved that off. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then… could you call Kay for me? Please?”

Sarah nodded, pulled out her phone, and stepped into the hall. I heard her explaining the situation in a low, even voice.

An hour later, Kay came through the door, lugging three suitcases. She came straight to my room. Sarah and I hugged briefly before she left.

Kay set the suitcases down and sat on the edge of the bed. “Sarah told me everything,” she said.

“I knew she would,” I replied. “Not to be mean—she called my bestie because she knew I’d need you.”

Kay nodded. “Normally, I keep at least two of these bags packed with my clothes, multiple passports, and other paperwork just in case you ever need me to travel with you or keep you out of legal trouble. But this time it’s because I’m staying here. I’ve already reached out to Tara about me stepping in for you at work for the next two weeks—or however long it takes until you’re ready to go back.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Thank you, Kay.”

“Always,” she said simply.