My fingers tighten around the phone 93

ria’s POV
I stood motionless at the kitchen sink, the mountain of dirty dishes staring back at me like an accusation. Three days
they’d been piling up. My fingers curled around the edge of the counter as another wave of nausea crashed through me.
Even the faintest hint of food residue—a smear of ketchup, a forgotten crust—sent my stomach into violent rebellion.
With determination born of pure stubbornness, I grabbed the sponge and squeezed dish soap onto its porous surface.
The artificial lemon scent hit me like a physical blow. I barely had time to spin around, lunging desperately for the trash
can before my empty stomach contracted in painful, futile heaves. My throat burned as I gasped for air, tears pricking the
corners of my eyes.
Ten days. Ten days since that supposed flu had invaded my body, and yet instead of retreating, the symptoms had dug in
their heels. My attendance at the training camp had become a patchwork of absences, and on those rare days I managed
to drag myself through the doors, I’d barricaded myself in my office with mountains of paperwork, a fortress of files
keeping me safely hidden from everyone—especially Ethan.
The worst part wasn’t the physical misery; it was Lucas. My sweet boy now regarded me with a quiet disappointment that
cut deeper than any knife. Each night as I tucked him in, the same question hung between us:
“When is Uncle Ethan coming to see us again?”
And each night, my answer crushed the light in those eyes. “We can’t rely on Ethan anymore, baby.” I’d whisper, watching
those beautiful green orbs fill with tears before he’d turn away, his small shoulders stiffening with a hurt too profound for
his six years.
With shaking fingers, I pulled the pharmacy receipt from my pocket, its paper worn thin from repeated folding and
unfolding. After my shift, I’d driven clear across town to the pharmacy furthest from the training camp, paranoia making
me check my rearview mirror for familiar faces. At the counter, I’d kept my head down, chin nearly touching my chest as I
pushed six different brands of pregnancy tests toward the cashier. Her eyes had softened with that unique blend of
sympathy and also curiosity.
“How long has it been?” she’d asked gently, her voice low as she placed the boxes into an opaque bag.
“A little over a week,” I’d mumbled, studying the floor tiles with sudden fascination. “Probably just a stomach bug.”
The lie had tasted bitter on my tongue. Her knowing nod told me she wasn’t fooled.
Now, those tests stood in formation on my bathroom counter, a jury of plastic sticks waiting to deliver their verdict. My
heart hammered against my ribcage as I selected two boxes at random, my trembling hands struggling with the
packaging. As I placed the first test stick on the counter’s edge, déjà vu washed over me with such force I had to grip the
sink to stay upright.
Six years ago. A dingy motel bathroom with flickering fluorescent lights. The same terror, the same uncertainty, the same
desperate loneliness as I’d waited for those two lines to appear or not appear. Back then, I’d been exiled by my father,
betrayed by Bella, abandoned by Emma. My body had been a battleground, my wolf spirit slowly dying from Bella’s
poison. I’d had nothing.
And now, history was cruelly repeating itself. I watched, holding my breath, as two clear, unmistakable lines gradually materialized on the white plastic. Not trusting the result, I grabbed the second test with unsteady hands, then the third.
Different brands, different designs, but the same unequivocal answer.
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My legs gave way, and I slid down the bathroom wall to the cold tile floor. My palm pressed instinctively against my stillflat abdomen where an impossible reality was taking shape. There were no tears this time, no screams, no desperate
bargaining with fate—just a strange, floating calm that seemed to exist outside of myself.
Six years ago, those lines had nearly destroyed me. Now, they felt like the universe’s darkest joke.
Ethan’s child. Our child.
An unbidden thought surfaced through the chaos of my mind—Lucas would have a sibling. “Will you be luckier than your
brother?” I whispered to the microscopic life beginning its journey.
The silence offered no answers.
I pulled myself up from the floor, legs unsteady, and carefully gathered all the tests. After stuffing them back into their
bag, I walked to the kitchen with mechanical steps. The sound of running water as I turned on the faucet seemed
unnaturally loud in the quiet apartment. I began washing dishes with methodical precision, letting the mindless task and
steady splash of water drown out the storm in my mind.
My fingers moved unconsciously to my abdomen, tracing small circles as memory pulled me back to another time,
another pregnancy. I’d been sitting in a clinic waiting room, terrified and considering options I never thought I’d
contemplate. Beside me had sat a she-wolf, her face marked with yellowing bruises, her belly swollen with cubs. Two
small children had nestled against her side, their eyes watchful and too old for their young faces.
We’d talked for hours. When I finally gathered the courage to ask how she could love children conceived in violence, her
answer had carved itself into my soul:
“Every life is a gift from the Moon Goddess,” she’d said, her voice soft but steel-strong as she’d stroked her belly. “No matter how it comes into this world. This child doesn’t carry the sins of the father because they have my blood, will be
raised by me, and are mine.”
That day, I’d walked out of the clinic with my decision made. Giving Lucas life had been the bravest choice I’d ever made,
and not once in six years had I regretted it.
Now I stood at a similar crossroads, water running over my hands, soap bubbles clinging to my wrists. But this time,
everything was different. This child’s father wasn’t a faceless attacker in a dimly lit hotel room. This child’s father was
Ethan—complicated, honorable, maddening Ethan, who had held me through fever dreams and washed these very
dishes when I couldn’t.
I shut off the water with a decisive twist and dried my hands on a dish towel, the rough fabric grounding me in reality. Whatever uncertainties swirled around me, one truth remained absolutely clear: this new life, like Lucas before it, was
mine.
My child. My choice. My future.