“Save it,” I said. “We’re done. Do not come around here again. I’ll handle my life and my baby. You’ll handle yours.”
I hung up, my throat tight, but I felt lighter. The daughter-mother tie had been severed, painful as it was. I walked into the living room where Travis was folding laundry—our laundry—and stopped in the doorway. He glanced up. “I’m going to leave you with Mom’s things,” he said quietly. “And I’ll start looking for a place closer to you.”
I nodded, my lips pressed together. “Thank you.” I managed a small, tired smile. “That’s all I need.”
Over the next weeks, I settled into a new routine. I decorated the nursery myself—soft grays and mint greens, with a mobile of stars and moons. Friends helped me paint and assemble furniture. I went to prenatal appointments, learning the shape of my baby’s profile on screen. Each tiny kick felt like proof that I was moving forward.
Travis came when he said he would. He asked about my appointments, brought home groceries, and sat with me when I cried over the late-night news or the thought of raising a child alone. He never mentioned Mom again. I never asked.
My mother did reach out once more, via text: Hope you’re okay. I ignored it. My peace came from focusing on the life growing inside me, not from a woman who had betrayed me.
The day I felt the baby’s first kick from the outside, I placed my hand on my belly and smiled through tears. Travis put his hand next to mine. “Can you feel that?” he whispered.
“I can,” I said. “That’s our baby.”
He touched my hand gently. “I’ll protect them,” he promised.
I looked at him, and for the first time since that awful afternoon, I believed him—not because he said the words, but because I had found my own strength to say mine: I will protect this child, no matter what. And that was enough.
