25. Emily

Theres joy in my heart, yes, although Im a mess right now. I could be a mother. I could be a mother.

My decision crystallizes. I need to leave, to return to the chaotic embrace of New York City.

Waiting it out in NYC, where the noise can drown out my fears, seems like the only viable plan. Im certain, with a clarity that cuts deep, that the potential father of this child will abandon us. The fear isnt just about the act of leaving; its about what it signifies—the confirmation of my deepest insecurities, the realization that Im not enough, that this child wont be enough to make him stay.

Plus. My eyes scan the Polaroid once more, disgust making my insides coil tightly. This town clearly has it out for me. If I stay, Im going to expose any child of mine to this dirtiness. They dont deserve that.

Youre saying all these things because youre too afraid of admitting the truth, a voice in my head erupts. I shake it violently. No, I will not be swayed.

It takes me twenty minutes to book a flight back, courtesy of my agent.

My hands shake as I yank the suitcase from under the bed, the sound grating in the silence of my room. Clothes lie scattered around, mirroring my frantic state of mind. I grab at them, not bothering to fold, my movements erratic, driven by a desperate need to escape, to run from the wave of emotions threatening to engulf me.

I could be a mother, I whisper aloud to the empty room. My heart races, a wild drumbeat echoing in my chest as I shove items into the suitcase. Each piece feels like a decision, a step further away from the life Ive known and toward the unknown.

The phone rings, slicing through the chaos of my thoughts. Floras name flashes on the screen, a lifeline Im not sure I want to grab. I hesitate, then answer, pressing the phone against my ear with a trembling hand.

Em, where are you? Want to meet? Her voice is so … cheerful. She doesnt know Im about to break her heart.

Flo, I start, then pause to swallow a gulp of air. Flo, I have to go back to New York.

Theres a beat of silence. Then she speaks, Why?

I—my period is late.

Another pause. Em, but this is good news, right? This is what youve thought impossible for an age?—

Its not about that, I say, trying to sound stoic, but my voice comes out all strangled and funny. I just cant do it here, cant go through the ordeal of asking a man to raise a child if theyre not willing to.

Emily, please, just listen, Floras voice is calm, a stark contrast to the storm raging within me.

I cant, Flora. I just … I have to do this, I manage, my voice barely above a whisper, the sound of fabric rustling in the background as I continue to pack.

Running wont solve this. Your fears, theyll just follow you to New York. You cant outrun your ghosts, she pleads, her words heavy with concern.

Tears blur my vision, each of Floras words like a shard of glass piercing my resolve. Not all men will abandon you like our father did, Em. You dont have to do this alone.

Her attempt to anchor me to hope, to a chance of a different outcome, feels like a tether Im desperate to cut. You dont understand. I … I have to think about whats best for … for the baby. Going solo is the only way.

The clothes in my suitcase are a jumbled mess. I can hear Floras sigh, the sound heavy with unspoken words and shared memories of a past that haunts us both.

This time can be different. We can make it different, she says, but her words sound miles away, drowned out by the loud thrumming of my own fears.

I cant absorb her words, cant let myself hope. The thought of facing this in Emberton, under the weight of expectations and the shadow of past hurts, is overwhelming. I just … I need space, Flora. To breathe, to think, to … to process this on my terms.

The conversation spins, Floras voice a steady stream of reassurances and pleas, but they bounce off me, unable to penetrate the armor Ive built around my decision. I continue to pack, my movements mechanical, as I try to shut out the growing dread that Im making a mistake—one I cant undo.

Emily, please, Floras voice cracks, and my heart with it. Dont make a decision out of fear. Give the men a chance to prove you wrong.

But fear has been a constant companion, whispering that Im not enough, that this child wont be enough. How can I stand still, how can I hope, when every instinct screams to protect this potential life from the pain of abandonment?

I … I have to go, Flora. The flight leaves soon, I lie, the urgency in my voice betraying my panic.

Theres a pause, a breath, a heartbeat. Ill be here. Well be here, Em. When youre ready to come home.

The call ends, and the silence is suffocating. I look around, my room a battlefield of half-packed belongings and shattered certainties. The suitcase lies open, a gaping maw waiting to swallow the remnants of my life here.

I sit on the edge of the bed, the fabric of a shirt crumpled in my hands, and allow myself a moment of weakness. Tears spill over, a silent testament to the battle raging within. The joy of potential motherhood is tarnished by fear, and the decision to flee feels like a cowards way out yet the only path I can see.

The clock ticks on, relentless, a reminder of the plane that will take me away from Emberton, from Flora, Caeleb, Finn, Silas, from the possibility of facing my ghosts with the support of those who love me. But the fear of repeating our mothers history, of being left alone to pick up the pieces, is a narrative I cant seem to rewrite.

I stand, wiping away tears, determined to follow through. The suitcase snaps shut, a finality that echoes in the hollows of my heart. I grab it. Before I step out, and perhaps fueled by sheer instinct, I scribble a note and leave it on the front porch. As I step out of the mansion, the air of Emberton wraps around me like a familiar embrace, a reminder of what Im leaving behind.

A nondescript cab ride later, Im at the airport. The sheer business of everything assaults me as soon as I step through its automatic doors. My suitcase, a small island of my existence, trails behind me, its wheels a constant thrum against the polished floor. I navigate through the sea of travelers, each with their destination, their stories, as lost and found in their journeys as I am in mine.

Ahead, a family catches my eye—a tableau of warmth amidst the sterile airport hustle. A father swings his laughing daughter in the air, her giggles a melody of pure joy; while the mother, holding an infant, watches with a smile that speaks of love profound and unshakeable. Its a snapshot of what could be, what should be, and the sight gnaws at my heart, a painful reminder of the future I fear my child will never have.

For a moment, I stand there, an outsider looking in, witnessing the embodiment of all my hopes and all my fears. The laughter, the connection, the evident bond—its beautiful and heart-wrenching all at once. A lump forms in my throat, and I swallow hard against it, the realization hitting me with the force of a tidal wave: this is what Im walking away from, this chance for my child.

But fear, like a vise, squeezes the air from my lungs. I cant afford this kind of hope, not when experience has taught me so harshly that it might be snatched away. I turn, forcing myself to step away from that poignant scene, a self-inflicted cruelty necessary for survival.

Hunger, or perhaps nausea masquerading as hunger, claws at me. The smell of processed food and stale coffee hangs heavy amidst the hum of fluorescent lights. My stomach twists, a protest against everything—the emotional turmoil, the physical exertion, the dread of what lies ahead. Yet, I know I need sustenance.

Mechanical movements guide me toward a generic food court. I order a salad I have no desire to eat and a bottle of water I force myself to drink. Every dry mouthful of lettuce, every limp tomato wedge, is a form of self-inflicted penance for the choices Im making.

The plastic chair digs into my back. The airport buzz, once a background hum, now feels like an assault on my senses. A childs wail echoes through the cavernous space, grating. I press my hands over my ears, seeking a moment of solitude in this place designed for transit, not refuge.

Meal half-finished, I discard the paper plate and stand, my head swimming. Yes, I felt safe here, with the men in my life. But that could change once a child comes into the equation. It did for my parents, didnt it? This child, if they do come, deserves a better chance than I had. And sometimes, being a good mother starts with an act of desperate, painful love.

I press on, certain in the knowledge that, despite the ache in my heart, leaving is the best I can do for my baby. To protect them from the potential heartache of a fathers abandonment, to shield them from the shadows of my own insecurities—this is what I choose.

As I approach the departure gate, the finality of my journey looms large, a stark line drawn between my past and my uncertain future. I find my seat on the plane, the hustle around me fading into a dull roar as I sit with my thoughts, a tumultuous sea of what-ifs and could-have-beens.

I pull out my phone, intending to turn it off. But as I do, the screen lights up with a message. Its from Caeleb. Trust us, were going to get through all of this together.

Prepare for takeoff, the captains voice resonates through the cabin.