CHAPTER 196

CHAPTER 195
LILY POV

Time passed in a strange way, as if the days were made of fine sand slipping through my fingers before I could hold onto them. Weeks turned into months, and my belly grew slowly but inevitably, like a truth I could no longer hide. I was almost six months pregnant. The skin stretched tight, the movements stronger, swollen feet, constant tiredness. But also a kind of strange, almost surreal peace that I cultivated in silence.

I was preparing for my daughter’s arrival with obsessive dedication. I studied for the GED every day, read books about motherhood, watched videos about childbirth, and organized the little corner in my room that would be hers. Samantha helped me choose baby clothes, and Doug assembled furniture with his calloused hands — hands that had never done that before. It was as if we were building a nest in the middle of a storm that had yet to arrive.

One day, shortly before Christmas, my father called me out to the garage. He was sweaty, with sawdust in his hair, and a shy smile on his face. Beside him stood a crib made of light wood, beautifully crafted, with soft details on the sides.

“I made it for her,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “For my granddaughter.”

I stood there, staring at the crib, tears rising too quickly. It was perfect. Simple, but full of love. My father — the man who had raised me alone, who had given up so much — was now building a crib for his daughter’s daughter. I walked closer and ran my hand over the smooth wood, breathing in the fresh scent of varnish.

“It’s beautiful, Dad…” I murmured, my voice breaking. “Thank you.”

He pulled me into a hug, strong and protective, like in the old days.

“I’ll be here, Lily. For both of you. Always.”

I cried on his shoulder. I cried with relief, fear, and gratitude. I cried because, despite everything, I still had a father.

Christmas dinner was strange and tense, but it happened. The house was decorated with twinkling lights, a big tree in the living room, and the smell of roasted turkey and cinnamon in the air. Ashley’s family came — her rigid but polite parents, and Ashley herself, radiant with her prominent belly, wearing a red dress that highlighted her blonde beauty. We sat at the large table, a strange portrait of two families united by the same man who wasn’t even there.

The conversation started with light topics. Then, inevitably, it turned to the babies.

Ashley and her parents began listing names excitedly.

“We’re torn between Violet, Iris, Ivy, Hera, Chloe, Florence, and Anastasia,” Ashley’s mother said, smiling. “All delicate, feminine names.”

Doug chuckled softly as he carved the turkey.

“That’s a lot of options. You’re not making it easy for us.”

Ashley smiled, stroking her belly.

“Yeah. Anyway, I’m focusing on names that remind me of spring. I want her birth to be full of life, flowers, and renewal.”

I raised an eyebrow, feeling a spark of irritation.

“Spring?” I asked, unable to hold back. “That’s strange.”

Ashley turned to me, slightly annoyed.

“What’s strange?”

I looked at her, feeling the weight of all the months of tension between us.

“Your daughter isn’t going to be born in spring… It doesn’t make sense to choose a name that refers to spring.”

Ashley turned red. Her parents exchanged uncomfortable glances.

“You’re crazy,” she snapped, her voice sharp. “My baby is going to be born in spring.”

“No, she isn’t. Mine is. If you got pregnant before me, like you keep insisting, your baby will be born first. In winter. Not in spring.”

“I don’t have as much of a head start as you like to assume.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but Samantha quickly intervened, her voice firm:

“Enough, girls. The important thing is that both girls are born healthy. Nothing else matters right now.”

Ashley huffed but stayed quiet. After a moment, she looked at me with a fake smile.

“And you, Lily? Haven’t you chosen a name for your daughter yet? Or are you waiting for the father to show up so you can decide together?”

I felt the jab. But this time, I didn’t shrink. I smiled — a calm, almost serene smile.

“I already have.”

Everyone stopped. Doug, Samantha, Ashley’s parents — they all looked at me, curious.

Doug tilted his head.

“What’s it going to be?”

I caressed my belly under the table, feeling a light kick, as if she approved.

“Faith.”

The name hung in the air. Faith.

Samantha smiled, her eyes watery.

“Faith… it’s beautiful.”

Doug nodded, emotional.

“Faith Thompson. It suits her.”

Ashley stayed silent, her face tense. I felt a small victory in my chest. It wasn’t much. But it was mine. A name I had chosen. A hope I carried.

During dinner, at one point, Samantha stood up discreetly. She murmured something about getting more wine from the kitchen and left the table. I noticed. The others didn’t. But I saw the way she grabbed her phone before disappearing down the hallway. My chest tightened. I knew exactly who she was calling.

Samuel.

She was calling Samuel.

While I sat there, pregnant with his child, hiding everything, she was probably telling him about the dinner, about everything — except about me and our daughter. Or maybe telling him about me, but in a controlled way. The thought hurt more than I wanted to admit.

When she returned, her face was serene, as if nothing had happened. I didn’t ask. Not there. Not in front of everyone.

The rest of the dinner passed with veiled tension. Superficial conversations, forced laughter, exchanged glances. When it was over, I went up to my room, exhausted but with a strange sense of peace.

Lying in bed, with my hand on my belly, I whispered to my daughter:

“Faith. Your name is going to be Faith. Because that’s what I need right now. Faith that we’re going to be okay. Faith that your father will one day know about you. Faith that I’ll be able to be the mother you deserve.”

Outside, the snow fell slowly. Inside me, a new life was preparing to arrive.