Page 43 of Pregnant in Plaid
"You don't have to?—"
"I want to." I look at her. "For the baby. For you. I want to."
She touches her stomach, and I see the moment she stops fighting it.
"Okay," she whispers.
That night, I find her in the kitchen crying.
Quietly, but her shoulders are shaking.
"Hey." I'm across the room in seconds. "What's wrong? Is it the baby?"
"No, I'm—" She wipes her face. "I'm fine. Just hormones."
"Patrice."
"I'm fine."
I sit next to her. "Talk to me."
Long pause. Then: "I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"All of it. The birth. Being a mom. What if I'm terrible at it?"
"You won't be."
"You don't know that. You don’t even know me."
"I do. You're already putting this baby first." I reach for her hand. "That's what makes a good parent. Not having all the answers. Just showing up."
"What if I mess up?"
"Then you mess up. We both will." I squeeze her hand. "But we'll figure it out together."
She stares at our hands. "Why are you so calm?"
"I'm not. I'm terrified." I laugh. "I've been up every night reading. Do you know how many swaddling techniques exist? It's excessive."
She laughs through tears. "How many?"
"At least seven. I stopped counting." I hand her a tissue. "Point is, we're both scared. But at least we can be scared together."
She squeezes my hand. "Together."
"Yeah."
She leans her head on my shoulder, and we sit in the quiet kitchen until she calms down.
"Thank you," she murmurs.
"Anytime."
Because somewhere between her showing up pregnant and now, this stopped being about obligation.
This became about her.
