Chapter 22
The first months of pregnancy were gentle in ways I didn’t expect. No morning sickness, no endless cravings – just the steady swell under my dresses, the weight that reminded me every day that I was growing something new, something that would never carry the scars I once did. Nathan would touch my stomach every night, like he was greeting the baby, his big warm hand spread over the small bump. He’d lean down and whisper, “Hey in there, your mom’s the strongest person I know. Just so you’re clear.”
I’d laugh, but sometimes I’d cry too scared me.
–
not from sadness, but from the ache of being so loved it
The café stayed open, even when my ankles began to swell and the doctor told me to rest more. But resting was never my strong suit. So I’d prop my feet on a stool behind the counter, sip my tea, and greet the customers who had become my family.
Nathan hovered over every doctor’s appointment, his eyes wide with awe the first time we heard the baby’s heartbeat on the monitor that fast, fluttery rush that sounded like tiny wings beating inside me.
–
He held my hand so tight, I almost couldn’t feel my fingers. I didn’t mind.
When I was six months along, I closed the café for a week. We took a short trip to the coast – the same little town we’d gone for our honeymoon. I remember standing on the balcony in my loose linen dress, feeling the sea breeze lift my hair while Nathan stood behind me, his chin resting on my shoulder.
“You’re glowing,” he’d murmured.
“Don’t say that. It’s cliché,” I teased.
“But it’s true,” he said, kissing my neck. “You look like you’re finally free.”
And maybe I was.
By the time the due date came, the house smelled like lavender oil and fresh paint. Nathan set up the nursery himself, refusing to let me lift a finger. He painted the walls soft sage green.
Sometimes I’d catch him standing in the doorway, just staring at the tiny crib, the stack of baby clothes, the mobile with stars and moons. I’d slip my arms around his waist and feel his chest
rise under my cheek.
“You ready?” I’d ask.
He’d laugh, a little breathless. “Not at all. But with you? Always.”
–
The birth was messy and terrifying — a swirl of bright lights and cold instruments, sweat on my temples, my hands clutching Nathan’s so hard I left half-moon marks in his skin.
When I thought I couldn’t push anymore, I heard him my ear, low and sure, like the ground under my feet.
–
–
not the doctors Nathan. His voice in
“You’re almost there, Chloe. Just a little more. You’ve got this, sweetheart.”
And then there was a sharp cry, a sound so small yet so loud it filled every empty part of me.
A girl.
When they placed her on my chest, warm and slippery, her cries muffled by the press of my skin, I felt everything and nothing all at once. I cried into Nathan’s shoulder as he kissed my damp hair again and again.
“You did it,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Look at her, Chloe. She’s perfect.”
We named her Hope. Hope grew fast, as babies do. She had Nathan’s eyes and my smile, and hair that curled in the back like it was spun from the gold I’d spent my whole life chasing but never found – until now.
At the café, she was everyone’s baby. I’d tuck her into a sling while I took orders or rocked her behind the counter while Alice scolded me for working too much. The regulars cooed and left tiny gifts a knitted hat, a soft blanket, a silver rattle engraved with her name.
–
Some days, I’d catch Nathan standing outside the front window, Hope perched on his hip, her small hand fisted in his collar. He’d grin when he saw me, lift her little hand to wave at Mama like she was royalty.
A year after Hope was born, we welcomed another – a boy this time. We named him Jude. And when he came, the café felt too small for the life we’d built, so we expanded – another room, more tables, a small corner where the kids could play while I worked.
At night, when the café was dark and the kids were tucked in, Nathan would pull me into our bed, pressing his lips to my bare shoulder. Sometimes he’d whisper, “You know, I’d marry you agair tomorrow if I could.”
And I’d whisper back, “You do. Every day.”
used to think freedom was leaving the people who hurt me behind. But standing there in the early hours of the morning, rocking Jude back to sleep while Hope curled beside Nathan on the ɔed, I realized it wasn’t about leaving – it was about choosing.
chose this. The slow mornings and the sticky baby hands and the warmth of Nathan’s laughter when the world still felt too big. I chose the café with its chatter and clatter and smell of burnt coffee beans on rough days. I chose the quiet moments in the dark, listening to my children breathe, knowing they’d never have to grow up the way I did – small, voiceless, afraid.
chose myself – finally.
–
And in that soft, steady life one baby coo at a time, one latte poured at a time, one kiss pressed to my temple as the sun rose over our little corner of the world – I knew I was free.
