“You’re serious? Ethan?” I finally asked. “I’m still healing. My body hasn’t recovered. I haven’t recovered.”
“I’m not asking you to do it next week,” he said quickly, moving closer to me. “I just mean… think about it. If we get ahead of this debt, we can finally breathe. No more juggling bills. No more stress. We could finally go away on that beach holiday we’ve wanted.”
He smiled at me like he’d just offered me the world.
That night, we lay in bed with our backs almost touching. I couldn’t sleep. My body ached in strange, quiet places. The stretch marks along my stomach felt deeper than skin-deep. I could still feel the ghost of a contraction when I shifted too fast.
“You’re doing this for us, Mel,” Ethan whispered, his voice a soft thread in the dark. “For our future and for my mom’s peace of mind.”
I stared up at the ceiling. The fan creaked overhead. Something inside me clenched — something quiet and knowing.
And I said yes. Again.
The second pregnancy was almost a year later, and unraveled me in ways I didn’t expect.
