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The silence in the room felt unbearable.

I sat still, trying to hold myself together, even as my heart beat faster than it ever had.

Dr. Patel's voice was calm. Steady. Like she had said all this before.

But this wasn't just another patient for me.

This was my life.

My body.

My future.

And no matter what I chose... something would be lost.

I stared at my hands in my lap, pale and trembling.

"I don't know what to do," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

It cracked down the middle like a fault line.

Dr. Patel didn't push. She just nodded gently. "That's okay. You don't have to decide today."

"But I do," I said suddenly, louder than I meant to. My eyes burned. "I have to. Every day I don't decide, I feel it more. And I still don't know what I'm supposed to feel. Or what I'm supposed to want."

My voice faltered. I wiped at my eyes with the sleeve of my hoodie.

Mom reached out and placed a hand on my knee. She didn't say anything. She just held it there.

Steady. Warm. Present.

"I think about keeping it," I whispered. "And then I feel like I'm drowning."

Dr. Patel nodded slowly. "And when you think about ending the pregnancy?"

"I feel guilty," I said. "And scared. Like I'm doing something wrong. Like I'm... giving up."

Mom's voice finally broke through, soft and trembling. "Sweetheart, it's not giving up. It's surviving."

That made something inside me crack open again.

Because deep down, I knew she understood.

Not everything.

But enough.

Dr. Patel leaned forward, her tone gentle. "There is no 'perfect' choice here, Emily. There's only the path that feels bearable. The one that gives you space to breathe, to heal, to find your footing again. It's not about what anyone else would do. It's about you."

I looked up at her, my eyes glassy. "But what if I make the wrong one?"

She gave me the kindest smile I'd seen in days. "Then we take the next step. Together."

For a moment, I couldn't speak.

Mom's hand squeezed my knee.

And maybe... that's what I needed right now.

Not answers.

Just space to breathe.

To not have it all figured out.

To be scared and grieving and uncertain.

And still... allowed to move forward.

I nodded slowly, pressing a hand to my chest like I could hold myself together from the inside out.

"Okay," I whispered. "Not today."

Dr. Patel nodded gently. "That's perfectly okay."

She stood, offering a tissue, and I took it with a quiet thank you.

"I'll give you both some time," she said, and then stepped out of the room.

The door clicked softly behind her.

And for the first time in what felt like hours...

I let myself cry.

Mom didn't say a word.

She just pulled her chair closer and wrapped her arms around me.

And I let her.

Because for once, I wasn't pretending I was okay.

The ride home was quiet.

Not the awkward kind.
Not the angry kind.

The kind of quiet that settles into your bones.
Heavy.
Exhausting.
Unspoken.

Mom kept her eyes on the road, hands gripping the steering wheel just a little too tight.
But she didn't say anything.
She didn't ask what I was thinking.
Didn't try to fill the silence.

And I was grateful for that.

Because I didn't have the words.
Not yet.

I watched the houses blur past the window, each one looking a little too normal, like nothing bad had ever happened behind their doors.

Like no one inside had ever sat in a freezing exam room, hearing their world change in one sentence.

I pressed my forehead lightly to the glass, trying to cool the thoughts spinning in my head.

What if I make the wrong choice?
What if I ruin everything?
What if I already have?

When we pulled into the driveway, Mom finally spoke.

She didn't turn off the engine.

She just sat there beside me, staring at the garage door like it held all the answers.

"I know this is a lot," she said quietly. "But whatever happens next... you won't have to face it alone."

Her voice was soft.
Steady.
A promise wrapped in warmth.

But all I could do was nod—barely.
Because I wanted to believe her.

I wanted to believe I wasn't completely shattered.
That I wasn't too far gone.
That I wasn't some ticking clock of a decision I didn't know how to make.

But the truth?

Right there in that moment?

I had never felt more alone.

And not because she didn't care.

But because no one else had to live in this body.
With this weight.
With this ache in my chest that wouldn't go away.

Mom reached out, gently brushing my hair back behind my ear.

No pressure.
No expectations.
Just... love.

I swallowed hard.

Then reached for the door handle.

And without saying anything else, I stepped out of the car and walked into the house—

Carrying every unanswered question with me.

The smell of barbecue filled the house.

It drifted in through the screen door—smoky, warm, and familiar. Dad had fired up the grill, something he only did when he wanted to feel useful. He said it helped him think.

I sat at the table, arms crossed on the cool surface, watching the plates get set out one by one.
Lily was humming to herself as she set out the forks. Sam slouched in his chair, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else but didn't dare say it out loud.

Mom moved around the kitchen in calm, practiced motions. Like she was holding the night together by sheer will.

And me?

I was trying not to fall apart over a plate of barbecue chicken.

Dad came in a few minutes later with a tray of grilled food and a small, satisfied grin. "Smells good, right?" he said, like he didn't feel the tension in the room. Like maybe, for a second, he could pretend things were normal.

He placed the tray on the table, and everyone sat.

We passed around the food.

Chicken. Mashed potatoes. Corn on the cob.

The usual stuff.

Except nothing about tonight felt usual.

I took a few bites even though my stomach was doing somersaults.

The silence stretched.

Then—

Lily, bless her, broke it.

"So... are we just gonna eat like nothing happened, or...?"

"Lily," Mom said softly, not unkindly.

"What? I'm just saying," Lily shrugged, chewing her corn. "Feels like we should talk about it."

Sam nodded slowly. "She's not wrong."

I stared at my plate. Especially the mashed potatoes.

Mom put her fork down. "Alright," she said. "Let's talk."

The room went quiet again—different this time.

Waiting.

Dad cleared his throat. "Emily... you don't have to say anything if you're not ready."

"I know," I whispered.

But I had to say something.

I set down my fork. "I had another appointment today. With a different doctor."

Lily's chewing slowed. Sam looked up from his plate.

I kept going, voice soft. "She walked me through everything again. The options. The risks. The timelines. Everything."

"And...?" Sam asked cautiously.

I shook my head. "I don't know yet."

They waited.

"I just..." I bit the inside of my cheek. "Everything feels like too much. If I keep it, if I don't—there's no version where it doesn't hurt."

Dad leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You don't have to figure it all out tonight, Em."

"I know," I said again, sharper this time. Then softer. "I know."

There was a long pause.

Then Lily asked, "Can I still be the baby's aunt if you keep it?"

The question caught me so off guard I actually laughed—just once, but it was real.

Lily looked proud of herself.

"Yeah," I said, voice cracking a little. "Yeah, you can."

Sam reached for his water glass. "Whatever you decide... just know we've got your back. Okay?"

I looked at him.

At Lily.

At Mom and Dad.

And the ache in my chest didn't go away.

But it shifted.

Just enough.

I nodded. "Thanks."

We didn't say much after that.

But for once, the silence felt... better.

Like maybe it wasn't hiding anything.

Like maybe it was holding something instead.

The house had settled into its usual evening quiet.
Sam was in his room with his music barely audible through the wall.
Lily had fallen asleep early, curled up on the couch with a book still open on her chest.
Mom was upstairs doing laundry or pacing—maybe both.

I was in my room with the door cracked open, the only light coming from my desk lamp.

The ultrasound pictures sat on my bed, still in the envelope the nurse had given me days ago.

I had looked at them once.

Then shoved them into a drawer.

But tonight, I'd pulled them back out.

They were spread across the blanket in front of me—grainy black-and-white images that somehow made everything feel realer and harder all at once.

I wasn't crying.

But I was close.

A soft knock on the doorframe made me flinch.

Dad stood there, a little awkward in his T-shirt and sweatpants, holding two mugs.

"Hot cocoa?" he offered, like this was just any other Friday.

I managed a small smile. "Yeah. Sure."

He came in slowly, handing me a mug before sitting down on the edge of the bed, not saying anything right away.

We sat like that for a while—me staring at the pictures, him sipping cocoa and watching me carefully from the corner of his eye.

"You don't have to show me," he said eventually, nodding toward the ultrasound photos. "But if you want to... I'd listen."

I hesitated.

Then turned one of the photos toward him—the clearest one. The one where you could almost see a shape that looked like something human. Something alive.

He leaned in, studying it quietly.

"I can't believe something that small can... change everything," I whispered.

Dad's voice was soft. "Yeah. It's crazy how something that doesn't even fill your hand can fill your whole world."

I let out a breath. "I don't know what to do."

He didn't respond right away.

Then he said, "You know, when your mom and I found out you were coming to live with us... I was terrified."

I looked up at him.
"You were?"

He gave a soft, quiet laugh. "Absolutely. I didn't know if I'd be a good fit for you. I didn't know if you'd trust me. I didn't even know if I was ready to be someone's dad."

I stared at him, surprised.

He kept going.

"I remember the day you moved in. You looked so small and guarded. Like you were waiting for the next bad thing to happen. And I just kept thinking, don't mess this up. Don't scare her away."

I felt my throat tighten. "You didn't."

He gave me a half-smile. "I tried not to. But I also knew love isn't about blood. It's about showing up. Every day. Even when you're scared. Even when you're not sure you're doing it right."

He glanced at the ultrasound photo in my lap.

"I don't know what the right answer is for you, Em. But I do know this—you're not alone. And no matter what you choose, I'll still be here. We all will."

I looked down at the blurry shape on the paper, heart heavy.

"But what if I'm not ready? What if I never feel anything? What if I mess this up?"

"Then that's okay too," he said gently. "You're allowed to be scared. You're allowed to take your time. And you're allowed to change your mind. This decision—whatever it ends up being—it's yours. But no matter what? You're still mine."

That last word—mine—hit hard.

Because even though we didn't share the same blood, he meant it.

And I felt it.

I blinked fast, trying to keep the tears from spilling.

"You really mean that?"

He reached over and gave my hand a steady, reassuring squeeze. "Always."

I looked back at the photo again.

And this time... I didn't look away.

I didn't sleep.

Not really.

Every time I closed my eyes, the same questions circled like ghosts:
What would it be like if I kept the baby?
Would Trevor try to be involved?
Could we stop him? Could we keep him away forever?

Lily came into my room a few times. She didn't say anything—just stood there in the doorway, like she could feel the heaviness pressing down on me even if she didn't understand all of it.

Eventually, she stopped coming.
But I knew she was still worried.
They all were.

And me?

I just lay there, curled into myself, arms wrapped tight around my stomach, like if I held still long enough, maybe the world would stop spinning.

Tears blurred my vision.

Again.

I had cried so much these past few weeks, I wasn't sure there was anything left.

But there always was.

Because no matter how many times I broke down, the fear kept growing.
The knowing kept growing.
The baby kept growing.

And still... I didn't have an answer.

I always wanted a baby.

That was the truth I kept pushing down.
Not now, not like this, not like this—but someday.
I used to dream about it. About cradling someone small and warm against my chest. About singing lullabies in the dark. About being everything I never had.

But I never thought that dream would come at fourteen.
And I never thought it would come from this.

From Trevor.

From violence.

From a night that still made my skin crawl.

I wiped at my face, the tears burning hot trails down my cheeks.

I thought if I just waited long enough, the answer would come.
But it didn't.

There was no voice in the dark.
No sign.
No moment of clarity.

Just me.
Alone.
Hurting.
And terrified.

And still... I couldn't bring myself to say the word.

Abortion.

Not because I was against it. I wasn't.
If someone needed to make that choice, I understood. I respected it.
Sometimes, it was the only way forward.

But for me?

The thought of ending something that might someday laugh like me, or dream like me, or hug me with tiny arms—it felt like another kind of loss.
Another kind of grief.

And I was already drowning in grief.

But keeping it?

That felt impossible too.

It felt like tying myself to Trevor forever.
Like letting him steal every good thing that might've been mine.

I curled tighter, my fingers trembling against the soft fabric of my blanket.

I wasn't strong enough.

I wasn't ready.

I wasn't—

I paused.

A flicker of a memory pushed through the darkness.

Me, at six years old, barefoot in the backyard, chasing fireflies in the Georgia heat.
Skinned knees.
Loud laughter.
A mason jar full of light.

I had been wild back then. Free.
Even with all the pain I came from—even with a mother who later in life never really looked at me like I mattered—I still found magic in the world.

And now?

Now I had something inside me.
Something that might carry that same magic.

I reached down, hesitantly placing a hand over my stomach.

It didn't look like anything yet.
No bump.
No flutter.

Just the knowledge that something was there.

Something that didn't come from love... but might still be loved.

I imagined holding them—this baby I didn't plan for.
Rocking them.
Kissing their forehead.
Telling them they were safe.
That no matter how they came into the world, they were mine.

And suddenly, I wanted that.

Not because it was easy.

But because... I could be the mother I never had.

I could break the cycle.

I could rewrite everything.

Tears spilled down my cheeks again, but this time, they weren't only from pain.

They were from something else.

Something I hadn't dared to feel in so long, I almost didn't recognize it.

Hope.

Real, aching, beautiful hope.

Because maybe...
Maybe I could do this.

Not alone.
Not perfectly.
But with everything I had left to give.

I looked over at the nightstand, where the ultrasound pictures sat in their little white envelope.

I reached for them.

My hands shook as I pulled them out.

And when I looked down at that grainy shape—so small, so impossibly fragile—I smiled.

It wasn't born from love.

But it could still be loved.

By me.

I pressed the photo to my chest, my heartbeat thundering underneath.

And for the first time since it all began...
I whispered the truth I had been too afraid to speak.

"I want to keep you."

I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, it was morning.

Sunlight slipped through the cracks in my blinds, painting soft lines across my sheets. I blinked at the clock on my nightstand.

9:02 AM.

For a split second, panic surged—I'm late!

Then I remembered.
Saturday.
No school. No teachers. No crowded halls. No pretending.

I exhaled slowly and sat up—

And like clockwork, it hit me.

That twisting, gut-churning wave of nausea that had become my new normal.

I groaned, clutching my stomach as I stumbled toward the bathroom, barely making it before I dropped to my knees, the cold tile pressing against my skin.

It was violent.
It always was.
My body felt like it was rejecting me one piece at a time.

I clung to the toilet, tears stinging the corners of my eyes.

This was my life now.
Wake up. Panic. Get sick. Try to survive. Repeat.

Eventually, the storm passed.
I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and headed downstairs—exhausted before the day had even begun.

Mom was in the kitchen, already dressed, her hair pulled back, a mug of coffee in one hand and the newspaper in the other.

The moment she saw me, her eyes flicked up, sharp and searching.

"Morning, sweetheart," she said gently, her tone light—but not casual. She was reading me. She always was. "You feeling okay?"

I hesitated, rubbing my arms. "Yeah. Just... morning sickness. Again."

Mom frowned and set down her coffee. "Honey, I know it's hard, but you've got to try to eat something."

She moved toward the fridge without waiting for my answer.

"Come sit. I'll make some toast."

I dropped into a chair, arms folded against the table, my chin resting on my hands.

The silence stretched between us—not heavy, just waiting.

Then Mom spoke again, her voice soft, but certain.

"You've been thinking about it a lot, haven't you?"

I didn't need to ask what it was.

I nodded slowly.

The toast popped. She buttered it carefully, handed me a plate, then sat down across from me with her full attention.

"I've decided what I want to do," I said quietly.

Her entire body stilled.

She set her coffee down.

I could feel the air shift—like the universe paused for just a second to hear my answer.

"I..." I swallowed hard. My fingers dug into the edge of the plate. "I want to keep the baby."

The words hung there, trembling in the quiet.

Mom didn't speak right away.

But her eyes... they softened. And behind them, I saw so much—relief, love, fear, pride. Maybe all of it at once.

Still, she gave me space.

She let me be sure.

And I was.

But then, the weight of the next question came crashing down.

My throat tightened. I looked at her, barely able to push the words out.

"But... what about Trevor?"

Her name tightened. Her back straightened. The softness in her face hardened into something fiercer.

"We'll fight it," she said immediately. "We'll do everything we can to make sure he has no rights. No access. No way to come near you or this baby. Not now. Not ever."

Tears pricked my eyes—but they weren't from fear this time.

They were from relief.

That's when Lily shuffled into the room, still in her pajamas, rubbing her eyes.

"Ugh, why is everyone up so early—"

She froze.

She had barely stepped into the kitchen before she stopped in her tracks, catching the look between me and Mom.

"What's... going on?" she asked slowly.

I took a breath and looked straight at her.

"I've decided," I said softly. "I'm keeping the baby."

Lily's eyes opened wide.

"Wait... what?"

She blinked like she wasn't sure she heard me right. Then she moved to the table and dropped into a chair across from me, blinking fast.

"You're serious?"

I nodded again. "Yeah."

For a long second, she just stared at me, her face unreadable.

Then—slowly—her expression shifted.
Not shock.
Not worry.

But... understanding.

A slow, crooked smile tugged at her lips.

"Well," she said, leaning back in her chair with her arms crossed, "I guess that means I'm gonna be an aunt, huh?"

The breath I didn't realize I'd been holding slipped out in a laugh.
A real one.

It took me most of the day to build up the courage.

I kept my phone in my hand, typing and deleting the same message over and over.

Can we talk? I have something to tell you.
Hey, can we hang out later? It's important.
I made my decision. I need you guys.

None of it felt right.

None of it felt like enough.

But by the time the sun dipped behind the trees, I sent one anyway.

Emily: You guys free? I wanna talk.

The reply came almost instantly.

Mia: Always. Want us to comeover?
Jasmine: Duh. I've been emotionallyinvested in your drama since day one.

A soft smile tugged at my lips.

They showed up twenty minutes later—Mia with her calm, knowing energy and Jasmine with a bag of sour candy and a half-empty bottle of Gatorade.

We sat on the back porch, the air thick with that late Spring, early summer warmth that clings to your skin but somehow still feels comforting.

No one said anything at first.

Mia just leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, waiting.

Jasmine shoved a sour strip in her mouth. "Okay," she said, her words a little muffled, "spill."

I looked at both of them.

And for a second, the words caught in my throat.

But then I saw their faces—really saw them—and the weight I'd been carrying started to lift.

"I'm keeping the baby," I said quietly.

Mia blinked.

Jasmine sat upright like she'd just been zapped.

"Wait—what?" Jasmine said, her voice rising a bit. "Like... keeping keeping?"

I nodded slowly.

"I thought about everything," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "And I just... I can't let go of it. I can't stop thinking about who they might be. What kind of life they could have if I gave them the one I never had."

Mia's eyes were already glassy. She reached over and touched my hand.

"You don't have to explain, Em," she said gently. "You don't owe us a reason."

"I know," I said. "But I wanted to tell you. Because you've both been here for me through all of it. And now that I know... I wanted you to know too."

Jasmine let out a long breath, tossing the candy bag aside. "Well, damn."

I laughed softly, and that cracked something in her.

"I mean—okay," she said, running a hand through her hair. "That's huge. Like massive."

"I know."

"And you're sure?" she asked.

"I'm scared," I admitted. "Terrified. But yeah. I'm sure."

Mia leaned back in her chair, her face calm but filled with something like awe.

"I can't believe how strong you are," she said quietly.

I looked at her. "I don't feel strong."

"Maybe not," she said, "but you are."

Jasmine blinked at me, then gave a crooked grin.

"So I guess that means... I'm gonna be the fun aunt, huh?"

I raised an eyebrow. "What makes you an aunt? You're my best friend, not my sister."

She gasped, placing a hand on her chest like I had just deeply wounded her. "Excuse me! Best friend, sister—it's a thin line. We've trauma bonded. That makes it official."

Mia snorted. "Honestly, we should get matching bracelets or something."

Jasmine pointed at her. "See? She gets it. We're honorary sisters. Emotional adoption is a thing."

"Fine," I muttered, trying not to smile. "But if you're the fun aunt, what does that make Mia?"

Mia sipped her iced tea like a CEO handling PR. "Obviously, I'm the grounded one. I'll teach them emotional stability, financial literacy, and how to avoid dating people like Trevor."

"Please do," I said. "They're gonna need all of that."

Jasmine leaned back dramatically. "And I'll teach them how to throw hands if needed. Or at least how to hide the evidence."

"Oh my God," I laughed, covering my face. "You two are going to get me arrested before the baby's even born."

Mia grinned. "Nah. I'll be your legal counsel."

"And I'll be the getaway driver," Jasmine said proudly. "This kid's gonna grow up with the most chaotic support system ever."

We all burst out laughing.