CHAPTER 90: HATTIE

CHAPTER 90: HATTIE
Moving day came with sunshine and the smell of fresh paint. The house still echoed when we walked through it, boxes stacked in corners, curtains half‑hung, but it already felt like ours. Every creak in the floorboards, every patch of sunlight spilling across the walls—it all felt like a promise. Preston carried the last box into the living room and dropped it beside the couch with a grin. “That’s it. We’re officially moved in.” I looked around, my heart swelling. “It doesn’t feel real yet.” He came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, his hands resting gently on my growing belly. “It’s real,” he murmured. “This is home.”

Over the next few weeks, we unpacked slowly, turning the empty rooms into something warm and lived‑in. The nursery came together first—soft cream walls, a rocking chair by the window, and a tiny crib that made my heart ache every time I looked at it. When we finally felt settled, we decided it was time to share it all. The house. The baby. The new beginning. We planned a baby shower—nothing fancy, just family and close friends. Maisie helped me decorate, stringing pastel balloons across the porch and setting up a long table in the backyard. The air smelled like spring, and laughter drifted through the open windows as people arrived. My parents were the first to walk in, my mom carrying a tray of cookies shaped like little onesies. “Oh, Hattie,” she said, looking around.

“This place is beautiful.” Preston’s parents followed soon after, his mom tearing up the moment she saw the nursery. “You two have done so much,” she said, hugging me tightly. “It’s perfect.” By the time everyone had arrived, the house was full of warmth and chatter. There were gifts piled high on the table—tiny clothes, blankets, books—and the sound of clinking glasses as Preston’s dad made a toast. “To new beginnings,” he said, raising his glass. “And to the little one who’s already brought so much joy.” I felt tears sting my eyes as everyone cheered.

Preston caught my gaze from across the room, his smile soft and full of love. Later, when the guests had gone and the house was quiet again, I stood in the nursery doorway, looking at the soft glow of the night‑light. The crib was filled with stuffed animals and folded blankets, gifts from people who loved us. Preston came up behind me, slipping his arms around my shoulders. “You okay?” he asked softly. I nodded, leaning back against him. “More than okay. I think this is the happiest I’ve ever been.” He kissed the top of my head. “Me too.” As I looked around the room—the home we’d built, the life growing inside me—I realized that for the first time in a long time, the future didn’t scare me. It felt bright, full, and waiting. And I couldn’t wait to meet the little person who had already changed everything.

Forty weeks. I woke up that morning feeling like I’d been pregnant for a century. My back ached, my feet were swollen, and I was convinced if one more person told me to “enjoy the last few days,” I might actually scream. Everyone—including my doctor—had told me to start maternity leave three weeks ago. But sitting at home, waiting, doing nothing? That wasn’t me. I needed to move, to think, to feel like I still had some control over my life.

So, I got up, got dressed, and went to work. The office was quiet when I arrived, the hum of computers and the smell of coffee greeting me like an old friend. My boss, Nicole, looked up from her desk, eyes wide. “You’re here?” I dropped my bag onto my chair. “Where else would I be?” She gave me that look—the one that said she wanted to argue but knew better. “You’re insane.” “Probably,” I muttered, booting up my computer. “But at least I’m productive.”

By midmorning, I’d answered emails, edited photos, and made two trips to the break room for snacks. The baby was still stubbornly quiet, no signs of wanting to make an appearance. I rubbed my belly and sighed. “Come on, little one. Any day now.”

My phone buzzed again…

Preston: How are you feeling? Any contractions?

I rolled my eyes and typed back, Still pregnant. Still fine.

Five minutes later, another buzz.

Preston: Did you eat breakfast?

I groaned, setting the phone face‑down on my desk. “If he texts me one more time…” Nicole snorted. “He’s just worried.” “I know,” I said, rubbing my temples. “But I’m not made of glass. I’m just pregnant. Extremely, painfully, endlessly pregnant.” By lunchtime, I’d gotten six more check‑ins. I loved him—God, I did—but if he didn’t stop hovering, I was going to throw my phone out the nearest window. When it buzzed again, I didn’t even look. I just muttered, “If that’s Preston, tell him I’ve run away to join the circus.” Nicole laughed. “You’d probably go into labor halfway through your first act.” “Perfect,” I said dryly. “At least it’d be interesting.”

Still, beneath the irritation, I knew why he was doing it. After everything we’d been through, he was scared. We both were. But I needed to feel like myself again, even if that meant sitting at my desk pretending I wasn’t about to pop. As the afternoon dragged on, I leaned back in my chair, one hand on my belly, and whispered, “Okay, kid. You’ve had your fun. Time to come out.” The baby didn’t answer, of course. Just a slow, steady kick against my ribs—like a reminder that they were on their own schedule, not mine. I sighed, smiling despite myself. “Stubborn,” I said softly. “Just like your dad.”