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“Your family?” I screech in disbelief.

“Yes. My family.” He says, taking a few steps toward me and placing his hands on my shoulders. “Ahora eres mi familia, Elsie.” You are my family now, Elsie.

It takes a minute for my brain to translate his words with my rusty college-level Spanish skills, but when they settle in, my jaw drops.

“You’ve lost your mind. You’re not thinking clearly, Marshall.”

“No. I’ve never been more clear-headed.” He says, returning to the stove to check on whatever he’s making.

I march up to him and poke him in the side. “You are not moving in with me.”

His 6’5” frame towers over me, but I’m not afraid of him. If anything, I’m growing more impatient with each passing second.

“Yes. I am. You’re not doing this on your own.” He says softly with a glance down to my stomach.

My hands fly to cover my belly, protecting what I know is growing there.

“Fine. You want to be involved. Great!” I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. “But you don’t need to live with me.”

“You keep saying that, princess. But I’m already here. You’re not getting rid of me. I’m not going anywhere.” He says sweetly. “Now, sit. Breakfast is almost ready.”

This man has absolutely lost his mind.

There’s no way this is happening. There’s no way this is real. It must be a dream, right?

I close my eyes and pinch myself, hoping I’ll wake up from whatever the fuck this is, but when I open my eyes again, Marshall is still standing there.

“Sit,” he repeats, gesturing to the dining room table, which has already been set with silverware, napkins, and glasses of juice and water.

“Right,” I grumble, finally admitting defeat. “It smells delicious.”

“Huevos rancheros.” He smiles, turning from the stove back to the two plates he has laid out before plopping the fried eggs on top of the fried tortillas and refried beans. “I was going to deliver breakfast in bed, but you beat me to it.”

“Where’d you get the stuff for all of this?” I ask.

“Ah. Yeah. You don’t exactly keep a whole lot of fresh ingredients on hand,” He chuckles. “But a buddy of mine’s wife owns a local grocery and opened up for me early.”

“Marshall. You don’t even cook for yourself. What the hell are you doing?” I ask.

“I’m cooking for my family,” he says simply, bringing the plate to me as I sit at the dining room table.

“You keep using that word,” I stress the last syllable.

“What? Family?” He asks as he sits down next to me.

“Yes! That! Stop saying that.” I scold.

“Elsie. You’re the one who showed up to my place yesterday and told me you’re pregnant. What did you expect was going to happen?” He says calmly. “You’re having my kid. We’re family now. That’s how this works.”

Panic rises in my chest every time he says that word. To me, it doesn’t mean what he thinks it means.

Family is an illusion—a facade with no substance.

It’s not something I want.

I just wanted a baby.

“It’s really not, though,” I say, picking up one of the tortillas laden with goodness and taking a bite. “Mhmm. Okay. That’s good.”

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