CHAPTER 88: HATTIE
CHAPTER 88: HATTIE
By the time the morning sickness faded, it felt like I could finally breathe again. The fog that had hung over me for weeks began to lift, and little by little, life started to feel normal. I went back to work, easing into my routine. My coworkers didn’t know yet, but Maisie did—she’d been my quiet anchor through every wave of worry. Preston and I had fallen into a rhythm too. We saw each other almost every night, cooking dinner together or ordering takeout when I was too tired.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was steady, and that steadiness felt like a gift. Some nights, we’d sit on the couch, his hand resting lightly on my stomach, both of us quiet. There was something sacred about those moments—like we were both afraid to speak too loudly and break the fragile peace we’d found. When the twelve‑week appointment came, I barely slept the night before. My nerves were a mix of excitement and fear, my heart caught between hope and memory.
At the clinic, Preston held my hand as we waited. His thumb traced slow circles against my skin, grounding me. When the nurse called my name, I felt my pulse quicken. The room was dim, the hum of the machine soft and steady. I lay back, the gel cool against my skin. Preston stood beside me, his eyes fixed on the screen. And then—there it was. A tiny flicker. A heartbeat. The sound filled the room, strong and steady, and something inside me broke open. Tears blurred my vision as I stared at the little shape on the monitor, moving, alive. “That’s your baby,” the technician said with a smile.
“Everything looks perfect.” I turned to Preston. His eyes were wet too, his smile small but full of wonder. He squeezed my hand, and I could feel the tremor in his fingers. When we left the clinic, the world outside seemed brighter. The air felt lighter, the sky impossibly blue. In the car, I rested my hand on my stomach, still feeling the echo of that heartbeat. “We made it this far,” I whispered. Preston glanced at me, his voice soft. “And we’ll keep going.” For the first time, I let myself believe it—not just in words, but deep down where fear used to live. Twelve weeks. A heartbeat. A beginning that felt real. And for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t just surviving. I was hopeful.
When we got back to Preston’s apartment, the air still felt charged with everything that had just happened. The sound of that tiny heartbeat was still echoing in my chest, steady and strong. Preston set his keys on the counter and turned to me with a small, nervous smile. “We should tell them,” he said. I nodded, my stomach fluttering. “Yeah. It’s time.” We sat together on the couch, phones in hand, both hesitating for a moment before making the calls. His mom answered first, her voice warm and familiar. “Preston! I was just thinking about you.” He glanced at me, then said softly, “Mom, Hattie and I have some news.” There was a pause, and then she gasped. “You’re not—?” “We are,” he said, smiling. “We just had our twelve‑week ultrasound. Everything looks good.” Her voice broke with emotion. “Oh, sweetheart… that’s wonderful.” I could hear her crying softly through the phone, and it made my throat tighten.
But beneath the joy, there was something else in her tone—caution, maybe even fear. She’d seen what we’d gone through before. They all had. When I called my parents, it was the same. My mom’s voice trembled with happiness, but I could hear the hesitation underneath. “Oh, Hattie, that’s such good news,” she said. “I’m so happy for you both.” Then, after a pause, quieter: “You’re feeling okay this time?” “I am,” I said, smiling even though she couldn’t see it. “Better than before. The doctor said everything looks perfect.” “That’s all that matters,” she said, her voice soft. “We’ll keep praying for you, honey.” After the calls, Preston and I sat in silence for a while, the weight of it all settling around us. Everyone was happy—truly happy—but there was a shared understanding in their voices, a quiet fear none of us could quite shake. He reached over, lacing his fingers through mine.
“They’re scared,” he said quietly. “I know,” I whispered. “So am I.” He squeezed my hand. “But this time feels different.” I looked at him, at the hope in his eyes, and nodded. “It does.” We sat there for a long time, the city lights flickering through the window, our hands still intertwined. The fear was still there, but it was softer now—tempered by something stronger. Hope. And for the first time, it felt like maybe that was enough to carry us forward.