Page 52 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
I rest my hand over my stomach without thinking.
For a little while, it’s easy. We slip into stories about undergrad and our mutual hatred for that one ethics professor who wore his socks inside out. She tells me about her journalism classes, the internship from hell, a guy she’s maybe sort of dating but will probably ghost if he chews with his mouth open again.
I let her talk. I let myself laugh.
It feels good. Like I’m still me. Like I haven’t been hollowed out and filled with something sharp-edged and breakable.
“You seem good,” she says after a while, studying me over the rim of her mug.
“I’m… surviving.”
Talia tilts her head. “That doesn’tsoundlike good.”
“It’s the closest I’ve got right now.”
She nods, then glances around before leaning in slightly. “Are you safe, Esme?”
Her voice is quiet. Careful. She knows not to say names, not to ask too much. Not here.
I could lie. Tell her I’m fine. Tell her it’s complicated. Tell her I’m figuring it out, but I’m tired of lying.
“I’m pregnant,” I say.
Her eyebrows lift. “Holy shit.”
I nod. My hand goes to my stomach again.
“That’s… okay, I wasn’t expecting that. Are you okay? Do you need anything? Do I need to… are we in get-the-bag-and-run mode, or—?”
“No,” I say quickly. “No bags. No running.”
Talia exhales slowly. “Okay. Good. I mean—well, not good, I guess, but—okay.”
We sit in silence for a beat. My tea has gone lukewarm. I don’t touch it.
“I’m married,” I say quietly. “He’s not a good guy, but I like him.”
She nods. Doesn’t ask questions she already knows the answers to.
“It’s not what I imagined,” I admit. “Being pregnant. I always thought it would feel… joyful. Exciting. Like I’d be glowing, you know?”
“Yeah,” she says softly.
“I’m terrified,” I whisper.
Her hand covers mine on the table.
“I don’t know how to do this, Tal,” I say. “I don’t know how to raise a baby in a world full of blood and threats and rules I don’t understand. I don’t even know who I am half the time anymore. I don’t know how to do this with him.”
Her fingers squeeze mine. She doesn’t speak, not yet.
“I thought love would be soft,” I say. “I thought it would be gentle and safe and easy. But he’s not easy. He’s… intense. Too much, sometimes. It’s like he burns, and I keep standing too close to the fire.”
“You’re still standing,” she says. “That says something.”
“I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
“Neither does anyone,” she replies. “People like to pretend, but every mom I’ve ever met is just a mess doing her best not to screw it up.”
