Until my obstetrician could confirm it and tell me it was a healthy pregnancy, I didn’t want to spend my time planning on a baby. I wanted to live our lives as normally as we could, and tell no one about the pregnancy. The fewer people who knew, the fewer people we’d have to tell when we inevitably lost the baby.
In one afternoon, that doctor had dangled the one thing I’d ever really wanted in front of me, and I couldn’t be so reckless as just to grab hold and hang on. I wouldn’t let myself be hurt that way again. I couldn’t survive that kind of devastation.
Devon didn’t like the plan, but he agreed, only if I agreed to some of his stipulations. In order for him to go along with my plan, I had to move in with him. He said he wanted me there every day and every night. I didn’t have to officially move out of my apartment, but he wanted me to bring enough clothes over so I didn’t have to go there every day, and he wanted us to live as a normal couple would.
I pretended as though I was a little put out by his request, but really, spending all my time with Devon, Ruby, and Jaxy was the best distraction. At least when I was around them I could pretend my mind wasn’t always on the child I wished for so desperately.
Even with my previous history, the obstetrician wouldn’t see me before I hit eight weeks. I tried to negotiate for an earlier appointment, but the scheduling nurse said it wouldn’t make a difference. If we wanted proof of a viable pregnancy, we’d have to wait for the eight-week scan—that’s when we’d be able to see the heartbeat.
Six weeks.
Six weeks of waiting for that appointment.
Six weeks that felt more like six years.
But Devon did exactly what I asked of him; he never mentioned the pregnancy or the baby.
At four weeks when my period never came, he was silent.
At five weeks when I went back to school and came home exhausted every day, napping and going to bed early, he said nothing.
At six weeks when I started vomiting every morning, he simply held my hair up and rubbed my back, saying not one word.
At seven weeks when I could no longer stand the smell of meat being grilled, I watched him smile, but he still said nothing.
At eight weeks when the doctor pointed to our baby on the screen, showing us the little fluttering of its heart, he finally leaned down and whispered in my ear, “You’re having my baby.”
Epilogue
Devon
Three Months Later
Spending Christmas in Hawaii was both good and bad. Good because, what’s not good about Hawaii in December? But bad because for every Christmas until the end of time I’d be thinking about that one glorious holiday we spent in paradise.
Evie and Nate’s wedding was wonderful, and I’ll never forget how beautiful and grown-up Ruby looked standing next to Evie acting as her maid of honor. They opted to stay in Hawaii for their honeymoon, but since they were newlyweds, we hadn’t seen much of them.
We planned on staying a week after the wedding and rented a condo right on the beach. It was my favorite time of day in Hawaii—sunset. And my favorite sunsets were the ones that included Grace. As I stood on the balcony of our rental, I could see Grace walking along the sand, Ruby and Jax walking alongside her, dress blowing in the wind, and baby bump on full display.
We’d decided to leave the sex of the baby a surprise, so I didn’t know if she was carrying my son or my daughter; all I knew for sure was that it didn’t matter in the slightest. She was healthy, the baby was healthy, my family was stitched together in the most beautiful way, and Grace was the thread that held us all together.
I think I knew from the moment I saw Grace and Jax under the shade of that tree that she’d be mine forever, but life and all its tangled webs made sure our path was just rocky enough to prove to Grace that I wasn’t going anywhere, that there was nowhere else I’d rather be than with her, Ruby, Jax, and our new baby.
We’d waited until we hit twelve weeks to tell anyone about the pregnancy for two reasons: one, because we wanted to hit that safe zone, and two, because we wanted a little bit of time to acclimate. Those weeks – between eight and twelve – where I was the only one who knew Grace was carrying my baby—and was allowed to speak to her about it—were some of the best weeks of my life. I’d catch just a glimpse of her face and see the glow she had and know it was because she was pregnant with my baby. The first time she got out of the shower and I could see the tiniest of bumps, nothing was going to stop me from kneeling down right in front of her and running my hands, lips, and nose along the gentle slope.
None of her doctors could explain how it happened; most just called it a happy occurrence. And it was. But it was more than that. Our baby was a miracle. And if it could happen once, it could happen again. I never brought up another baby with Grace because I knew she wouldn’t like it—she wanted to focus on reality, not fantasy—but I couldn’t help but wonder if there were more babies in our future. I wanted to give her everything, and I knew she’d want another.
When we’d finally found the courage to tell Ruby and Jax they would have a little brother or sister, well, I’d never seen my kids so happy before.