Rebirth: Love me Again

[EVE]

Life had finally begun to feel normal again.

Each morning was filled with warmth—the kind that had nothing to do with sunlight and everything to do with safety.

My mom's gentle humming in the kitchen, the clatter of spoons over steaming bowls of porridge, and the occasional chaos when my brothers argued about something ridiculous like who finished the last jar of peanut butter—it was the kind of chaos I cherished.

For the first time in a long time, my heart wasn't heavy. It felt . . . light.

And then, it happened.

It started small—just a wave of nausea that hit me out of nowhere. One minute I was sipping warm tea, the next, I was bolting for the bathroom, my stomach twisting violently.

I barely heard my mom's knock or her concerned voice. "Eve? Are you okay?"

"Just something I ate," I managed, rinsing my mouth, heart racing.

But that excuse was wearing thin. This wasn't the first time I'd felt off.

For weeks, I'd been more tired than usual, craving weird foods, and my emotions were riding a rollercoaster I couldn't get off.

Still, I brushed it aside. Emotional turbulence, I told myself. Hormones. Anything but what my gut was screaming.

And then it hit me.

I hadn't had my period.

Not for one month. Not two.

Four.

Four whole months.

I stood frozen in front of the bathroom mirror, trying to do the math. Trying to breathe. My reflection stared back—pale, wide-eyed, a little horrified.

A little . . . thrilled?

I left the hospital clutching the small envelope that contained the proof—grainy, black-and-white images of a tiny life growing inside me.

The world outside looked the same: people walking, cars honking, the sky an indifferent shade of gray. But for me, everything had changed.

I walked without knowing where I was going. My feet carried me through the park, past children playing and mothers calling after them.

I paused by a bench and sat down, letting the cool breeze hit my face. My hands trembled, still holding the ultrasound.

"Fourteen weeks," the doctor had said. "Healthy heartbeat. Everything looks normal."

Normal. But nothing felt normal.

How could something so small shift everything inside me? My priorities. My fears. My hope.

I ran my fingers over my belly. There wasn't much to see yet, but I could feel it. The shift. The soft tug in my heart. I thought I had moved on from Cole.

I thought I had left him behind, along with the shattered pieces of who I used to be. But now . . . part of him lived inside me.

A reminder of a love I had buried. A storm I thought I had escaped.

And yet—despite the chaos he caused, despite the pain—I couldn't bring myself to feel regret.

This baby was mine. Ours. A piece of something real. And for once, it didn't scare me. It didn't make me want to run. Instead, it grounded me.

Whatever happened with Cole didn't matter anymore. He didn't get to dictate my future. I'd build a life for this child. A safe one. A joyful one. Even if I had to do it alone.

Because now, I wasn't just living for me.

I was living for us.

I didn't tell anyone. Not at first. I couldn't. I needed confirmation before I let the truth unravel my carefully rebuilt life.

I went to the hospital alone. Masked, covered, anxious.

The waiting room was a blur of white walls and the ticking of a slow clock. My name was called, and suddenly I was lying on an exam bed, staring at a screen with trembling hands.

And there it was.

A soft flicker. A heartbeat.

Alive.

I didn't cry. Not at first. I just stared. And stared. Until the doctor smiled gently and handed me the ultrasound printout.

"It's strong," she said. "You're about fourteen to sixteen weeks along."

My knees buckled in the elevator after I left. Not from panic, but from the sheer weight of it. I was pregnant. I was going to be a mother.

And it was Cole's.

I thought I would feel dread, resentment. But instead, I felt warmth. Something stirred in my chest. Something ancient and tender and fiercely protective.

I wanted this baby.

That realization scared me more than anything. Because it wasn't just about me anymore. It wasn't about him, either. It was about a new life. A clean start. A fragile little heart depending on me to get this right.

When I came home, everything looked different.

The way my dad joked while washing the dishes. The soft lull of my mom's voice as she sang a lullaby while sketching.

Even the mess of my brothers wrestling over the TV remote—it all suddenly seemed like something sacred. A world I wanted my baby to grow up in. A family that, despite its flaws, would love fiercely.

I spent hours in my room that night, the ultrasound photo clutched in my hand. I traced the curve of the tiny form with my thumb, tears slipping silently down my cheeks.

I didn't know how I was going to tell them. I didn't know how they'd react. But I did know one thing:

This child was already loved.

And maybe, in a strange twist of fate, this child would help me love myself again.

Cole. The name still stung when I thought of it. I had spent so long trying to sever that connection, to pretend I didn't care.

But now, he was inside me—in the shape of a nose, a heartbeat, maybe a stubborn streak that would one day make me laugh or cry.

I didn't know if I would ever tell him.

Maybe I would.

Maybe he deserved to know. My baby deserves to know.

But not yet.

Right now, this wasn't about him. It was about me, and the tiny life growing quietly inside me, reminding me that love sometimes takes the most unexpected forms.

I placed a hand over my belly and whispered softly, "I've got you."

And I meant it with everything I had.