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The morning light filtered through my curtains, casting soft golden streaks across my bed, the kind of light that usually made everything feel calm. Gentle. Safe.

But not today.

I stirred, groggy and disoriented, my limbs heavy, my head thick with sleep.

Something felt off.

It wasn't the light. It wasn't the stillness.

It was deeper.

And then—suddenly—a violent wave of nausea hit me like a freight train.

No warning. No slow build.

Just panic.

My eyes flew open, and I barely had time to throw off my blanket before I was scrambling out of bed, stumbling toward the bathroom. My legs felt unsteady, and my vision blurred as I lunged for the toilet, the cold tile shocking against my knees.

The moment I hit the floor, I heaved.

It was harsh. Sharp. Like my body was trying to turn itself inside out. My hands gripped the porcelain rim as if I might fall straight through the floor if I let go.

Tears welled up in my eyes, blurring the edge of the sink, the walls, everything.

The bile burned up my throat, hot and bitter and acidic, leaving behind a taste I couldn't even describe—like metal and regret.

I gasped for air between dry heaves, my shoulders trembling, my forehead slick with sweat. My pajama shirt clung to me, damp at the back of my neck. I pressed my cheek against the cool side of the tub and closed my eyes, trying to catch my breath.

But the nausea didn't let up. It came in waves, unpredictable and cruel.

I didn't know how long I was there—minutes? More?

Time lost meaning when you were folded over the toilet, your body betraying you in the quietest hours of the morning.

Finally, the retching stopped.

But the heaviness in my chest didn't.

I slumped back against the wall, arms wrapped around my knees, forehead resting against them.

The room spun slightly. My throat burned. My mouth was dry. I could feel my heartbeat in the tips of my fingers.

Morning sickness.

So this was it.

This was real.

The test hadn't been a dream. The quiet decision to say nothing hadn't made it go away.

There was a baby growing inside me.

And it had a voice now—loud and undeniable.

Tears slid silently down my cheeks, mixing with the sweat clinging to my skin.

I wanted to go back to bed, to shut out the world, to pretend this wasn't happening.

But I couldn't even get off the floor.

I curled in tighter, my stomach still cramping, my body weak, empty, like it had given all it had left to give.

And in that still, too-bright bathroom, I broke again—quietly this time.

Not with screaming or sobs.

Just with silence.

Just with the weight of knowing that I wasn't ready.

I wasn't prepared.

I wasn't okay.

And I didn't know how long I could keep pretending I was.

By the time I managed to stumble out of the bathroom, my legs felt like they belonged to someone else—shaky, unsteady, like they might give out any second. I clung to the edge of the sink, breathing through my mouth, trying not to gag again.

I splashed cold water on my face, the shock of it making me flinch. Droplets clung to my chin and eyelashes. My reflection stared back at me—pale, damp, and haunted. My eyes looked darker, like the nausea had reached all the way into my bones.

Pull it together, I told myself.

Just act normal.

My hands trembled slightly as I wiped my face with a towel. I moved slowly, deliberately, trying to hold myself together like I wasn't falling apart one quiet crack at a time.

The smell hit me before I even made it into the kitchen.

Eggs.

Toast.

Something buttery and warm that would normally make my stomach growl.

Instead, it made my gut twist violently. My breath hitched, and I grabbed the doorway to steady myself.

Mom stood at the stove, spatula in hand, her robe tied neatly at the waist. The pan sizzled softly, the sound almost comforting in another life.

She turned just as I stepped in, and her eyes locked onto me immediately.

Her smile faded.

"Emily?" she said, setting the spatula down on a plate. "You okay? You look a little pale."

My pulse spiked.

Every alarm bell inside me went off at once. Don't panic. Don't freeze. Say something.

"I... I think I'm just not feeling well," I said quickly, pulling my arms around myself like armor. I tried to inject a shrug into my voice, to make it sound casual. Normal.

Mom's brow creased, her lips pressing together. "Again?"

I nodded, avoiding her eyes. "Yeah. Just... maybe a stomach bug or something."

I could feel her watching me. Studying me. Like she could hear all the words I wasn't saying. Like she already knew, even if she hadn't figured out how yet.

The silence stretched a second too long.

Then, gently: "Sweetheart, if you're sick, maybe we should take you to a doctor—"

"No." My answer came out too fast. Too sharp. I saw her flinch.

I quickly softened my tone, laughing it off even though my hands were clammy and cold. "I mean, it's not that bad. Really. Probably just something I ate yesterday."

Mom didn't speak.

She just stared at me, her jaw tense, arms crossing slowly over her chest.

That was the worst part.

She wasn't mad.

She wasn't scolding me.

She was concerned.

And I couldn't take it.

I stepped farther into the room, but the smell of eggs made my stomach roll again, and I had to breathe through my nose to keep from gagging.

"Want some toast?" she offered, her voice gentle. "You should try to eat something, even if it's just—"

"I'm good," I cut in, my voice quieter this time. "I think I'm just gonna lie down for a bit."

She didn't argue.

But she didn't believe me either.

"Okay," she said softly, her eyes following me as I turned toward the hallway. "Just let me know if it gets worse, alright?"

I nodded without looking back.

Because if I did, I might not be able to hold it together.

And I wasn't ready to fall apart in front of her.

Not yet.

A few minutes later, I was back.

I didn't even remember how I got there—how I stood up, how I walked to the kitchen, or how I pulled out the chair and sat down.

All I knew was that I was sitting at the table again, and my chest felt like it was caving in.

My heart pounded so hard it echoed in my ears, drowning out the soft sounds of the ticking clock and the faint sizzle from the cooling stove. The hum of the refrigerator. The world kept going, but inside me, everything felt like it was on the verge of falling apart.

My hands trembled in my lap, clenched into fists.

Mom stood near the counter, drying her hands with a dish towel when she noticed me.

She turned.

And the moment she saw my face—really saw me—something shifted. Her whole posture changed. The towel slipped from her fingers. Her eyes locked onto mine, and every trace of calm melted into quiet, focused concern.

She didn't say anything—not right away. She just moved toward the table, slow and careful, like approaching a wild animal she didn't want to scare off.

I swallowed hard. My voice was barely there.

"Mom... can we talk?"

Her face softened instantly. That worry was still there, but now it was wrapped in something deeper—love, pain, relief. "Of course, sweetheart."

She pulled out the chair across from me and sat down slowly, folding her hands together on the table like she was holding herself still.

She didn't rush me.

Didn't interrupt.

Didn't try to fill the silence.

She just waited.

The quiet between us was heavy—not tense, but full. Like it knew what was coming before I could speak.

I stared at the wood grain beneath my fingers, tracing the lines like they might give me the courage I couldn't find on my own. My eyes burned. My throat ached. My legs were screaming at me to run—but I didn't.

I took a breath that barely made it into my lungs.

And then—before I could back out—I said it.

"Mom... I'm pregnant."

The words landed with a weight I couldn't take back. Heavy. Final. Like breaking something you can't fix.

For a second, she didn't move. Didn't blink.

But she didn't gasp.

She didn't cry.

She didn't even look surprised.

Her eyes searched mine, deep and steady, and then—gently—she said, "I thought you might be."

I blinked, stunned. My voice cracked. "You... did?"

She nodded slowly, her voice soft, almost tender. "I've been watching you, Emily. I noticed the little things. You haven't been eating. You're pale, you look tired all the time. You flinch when someone mentions the future, or touches you without warning. And you've been drifting... not just away from me, but from yourself."

She paused, her voice catching. "I didn't want to believe it. Not because of you—but because I knew how scared you'd be. And I didn't want you to think you had to face it alone."

I felt something twist inside me. My mouth opened, but no words came. Just a trembling breath and the burning behind my eyes that I couldn't hold back anymore.

"Then why didn't you say anything?" I whispered.

"Because I didn't want to scare you," she said softly. "Because I knew if I pushed, you'd shut down even more. I kept hoping... praying... that when you were ready, you'd come to me."

She reached across the table and took one of my hands in both of hers. Her touch was warm, steady, anchoring me in place when everything else felt like it was slipping.

Her eyes shimmered, but her voice was sure. "And now you have. You told me. And that means you don't have to carry this alone anymore."

I bit the inside of my cheek, hard. But it didn't stop the tears. One slipped down my cheek, then another.

"I was so scared," I choked out. "I thought you'd be mad. Or disappointed. Or... or not want me anymore."

Her hands tightened around mine.

"Emily," she said, and there was something fierce in the way she said my name. "There is nothing—nothing—you could ever say that would make me stop loving you. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

I dropped my head as the sob finally broke free.

And she didn't move. She didn't try to fix it or hush me or make it go away.

She just held my hand like she wasn't letting go.

Not now.

Not ever.

And then she asked the question I had been dreading—so softly I almost missed it.

"Do you... do you want to tell me how it happened?"

I flinched.

Her eyes widened just a bit. "You don't have to say anything if you're not ready. I just..." She hesitated. "You've been through something, Emily. I can see it. And if there's something more—if someone hurt you—"

She didn't finish the sentence.

She didn't have to.

The silence that followed hung between us, thick and loaded.

My fingers curled around hers, tighter.

"I'm not ready," I whispered. "But... it wasn't my choice."

Her face broke—just for a moment.

Pain. Rage. Fear. All of it flickering through her expression before she reined it in.

She took a shaky breath and nodded. "Okay. Okay, sweetheart. That's enough for now."

I could see the storm building behind her eyes. The protective instinct. The fight.

But she didn't unleash it.

Not yet.

Instead, she stood and moved around the table, pulling me into her arms.

I hugged her for a little while—buried in her arms, breathing in the scent of clean laundry and warm skin, the familiar smell that had once meant safety and still almost did.

But the pressure inside me was too much. I couldn't keep holding it back. Not anymore.

My voice cracked as I pulled away just slightly, enough to look at her.

"It was Trevor!" I choked out, the words ripping out of me like they had been clawing their way to the surface for weeks.

Mom froze.

Silence.

Heavy, still, terrifying silence.

Her arms dropped to her sides, not out of rejection, but like she needed them free just to stand up under the weight of what I'd said.

Her eyes searched my face, and I watched something shift behind them—slowly, dangerously.

"Trevor?" she repeated, her voice lower now, harder. "Trevor—the boy who's been bothering you at school? The one who used to push you around?"

I nodded quickly, my vision blurring again with tears. "Yes. Him."

Mom's jaw tightened. Her whole body went still, like a coil wound too tight.

And then, because it had already begun, because there was no going back, I told her everything.

I told her about the night it happened. About the park. About how I froze. How I didn't scream. How I didn't fight.

How I couldn't.

I told her about the guilt, the shame, the silence. About the test. The nausea. The secret I'd been carrying all alone, afraid it would destroy everything if I said it out loud.

I couldn't look at her while I said it. I stared at the table, at my hands, at nothing at all.

And the whole time, Mom didn't interrupt.

She just listened.

Her breathing grew uneven. Her hand, still resting on my back, trembled once.

But she didn't speak until I finished. Until I had nothing left to give.

When I finally looked up at her, my face streaked with tears, her eyes were glassy—but fierce.

Fierce in a way I had never seen before.

Her voice was low, but steady. "Emily... this was not your fault."

I shook my head. "But I didn't stop him. I didn't—"

She cut me off, gently but firmly. "No. You don't get to blame yourself. Not for his actions."

Her fingers curled around mine, grounding me. "What he did to you... it was violence. It was a crime. And we are going to do something about it."

Panic rose in my chest. "Mom—"

"I won't do anything you don't want me to," she said quickly, sensing it. "But I need you to know... we're not just going to sit in this. Not anymore."

I could barely nod.

I was shaking.

But I wasn't alone anymore.

Mom was here.

And she believed me.