I swallowed hard. It was time for me to give an answer for my indiscretions. That was the least I could do. Breaking the news to my sister, Ruth, was difficult—extremely painful. That event was met with an astounding admittance of how much she looked up to me. The memory of her walking away from me with her shoulders slumped toward the ground, weighted with disappoint, will forever be etched in my head.
Now, I had to address it again with my parents. I sat up in my chair, pulled off the wideband ring I wore almost every day while in public since the Cayman Islands, and bared my tattoo, such a reflection of my soul sketched into my skin. Immediately, my mother grabbed her chest and my father mumbled something expressing pure astonishment.
“The only thing missing from this paperwork is this baby was conceived in love. It was not as scandalous as it’s becoming or appears. My child was made from love. He loved me. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what went wrong, but I can promise you I’m not that type of girl. I’m still the Zoey that you raised. I’m still a young woman of Christ. I still have morals. I still have values.”
I felt the tears building in my throat. “I would have never ever had sex with this man if he did not love me. He. Loved. Me. You have to believe me. He loved me. It was not something foolish or haphazard. It was not an infatuation. It was not my imagination. He. Loved. Me!”
That’s when I lost the battle with my tears. I broke down in loud sobs and uncontrollable shakes. Another new low for me.
~~~~~~~~~~
I didn’t speak to Stenton as much as we used to after meeting with his attorney. I didn’t know how to categorize our relationship after that act of betrayal. So, unless he reached out to me, I didn’t contact him.
Stenton arranged for a practitioner that wasn’t exactly around the corner from me. Apparently, one that had experience handling celebrity pregnancies and understood the need for discretion. Several times he attended doctor’s visits with me. He left with printouts of the ultrasound.
The first time he heard the baby’s heartbeat, he seemed amazed. The first time he saw the baby’s image on the monitor and we learned I was carrying a boy, Stenton’s head collapsed into his open hands as his elbows rested on his knees. The doctor offered to give us a minute because of Stenton’s emotional response. I lay on the examine table with my body so tense. It was the first time I saw a smidge of emotion from him since he broke it off with me. I didn’t know how to respond. My eyes would occasionally swing over to him, trying to find my voice and then my heart to speak from. But nothing.
Minutes into his silence, with his head still buried, he freed his right hand to find and clench my left arm and traveled down to clutch my palm. He held it for a while; still having no appropriate words, I didn’t utter any. I couldn’t.
Stenton raised his head and I immediately saw that his marbled orbs were glazed. The rims of his heavy eyes were red and moist. I felt my bottom lip drop.
“I don’t deserve this opportunity,” he croaked out. “I don’t deserve this gift from you.”
I bit my quivering lips to keep my tears at bay. Elated that he viewed this thing with me as a gift, my chest lightened for the first time in months. The earnest beam in his eyes was sketched in my brain and heart. In that moment, I could see the loneliness in Stenton. I could feel the concept of this baby being an opportunity for him to extend his almost nonexistent family. I felt like a creditor, granting him a favor so rare. This I didn’t quite understand because I knew there were droves of women who’d donate their limbs just to have a piece of his essence growing inside of them. Why did I feel so revered for doing something as unwise as getting pregnant by him so prematurely?