Part 3: Release

PART III

I stood in the bathroom, staring at the test in my shaking hands. Two lines. One bold, the other faint, but enough to confirm what I already feared. My breath caught in my throat. I was pregnant.

My whole body went cold, sweat dampening my skin even though the room wasn’t hot. The walls felt like they were closing in, tilting, spinning. I gripped the sink to steady myself as panic spread through my chest like wildfire.

What am I going to do? The question pounded louder than my heartbeat. My mind went straight to Dubem—his charm, his kisses, the way he made me feel wanted. But I couldn’t ignore the other side of him—the paranoia, the need to control everything, the threats that still echoed in my head. He wasn’t the same man I had fallen for, not anymore. Could I really have a baby with someone who could love me today and destroy me tomorrow?

Without realizing it, my hand pressed against my stomach. I yanked it away almost instantly, ashamed of the fleeting tenderness I felt. A part of me wanted to protect the tiny life just beginning inside me. Another part of me wanted it gone, to save myself before I was tied to Dubem forever.

No. I couldn’t tell him. Not yet. Not when I didn’t even know what I wanted for myself.

With trembling hands, I grabbed my car keys, stuffed the test kit into my bag, and rushed out of the house. On the way, I tossed the evidence into a roadside bin, as if throwing it away could erase the truth. But I couldn’t run from it. Not really.

At the medical lab, my legs felt heavy as I walked in. The blood test confirmed it—positive. The word mocked me from the page. I moved on autopilot, agreeing to an ultrasound as though it might somehow give me clarity.

Lying on the cold exam table, I watched the monitor flicker to life. Tears rolled down my face as I stared at the blurry image on the screen. This should have been one of the happiest moments of my life, but it wasn’t. If Dubem had remained the man I once fell in love with, maybe I would have felt safe enough to smile, to celebrate. Instead, it felt like a punishment—like life was mocking me, turning what should have been joy into a cruel reminder of how wrong everything had gone.

“Are you okay?” the sonographer asked gently, noticing my tears.

I forced a smile through the ache in my throat. “Yes… They’re tears of joy. My husband and I have been trying for a baby.” The lie rolled off my tongue too easily, but it tore at me inside.

Later, sitting in my car, I held the sonography printout in my lap. Two weeks pregnant. The words blurred as fresh tears burned my eyes. I pressed my forehead against the steering wheel and sobbed quietly.

A part of me wanted to keep it. Another part begged me to let it go.

I didn’t know which side of myself I would listen to. All I knew was that, whatever choice I made, nothing in my life would ever be the same again.

I used to hear women talk about finding themselves pregnant by the wrong man, and honestly, I never felt much sympathy for them. In my head, I’d think, How could you not see it coming? But there I was, sitting across from Imani, trying to imagine what it felt like to be in her shoes, and suddenly, I understood.

She sat hunched over, shoulders shaking, her sobs barely audible. My heart broke for her. Her only “crime” was letting her guard down, trusting when she should have read between the lines. I reached for the tissue box on the table and handed one to her. “Here,” I murmured softly. She wiped her eyes, and I gently squeezed her hand, a silent way of telling her she wasn’t alone. “Breathe first,” I whispered. “Then talk.”

Inside me, though, a storm was brewing. God knows I wanted to keep the baby. I weighed every option, turning it over in my mind until it hurt. I had never imagined myself in a position where abortion was even on the table. But here I was, deciding I’d have to go through with it—and without Dubem ever knowing. I told myself we could have another child someday, maybe if things miraculously got better between us. But tying myself to him with a baby now? That would be signing my own sentence for emotional torture.