Rebirth: Love me Again

[EVE]

Cole.

His name entered my mind like a storm.

He would find out eventually. Somehow. Someone would tell him.

And what then?

Would he fight for it? Would he demand rights? Would he ask to be a father?

Would I let him?

The thought scared me—not because I didn't think he could be a good father. But because I didn't know what it would do to me.

Seeing him again. Hearing his voice. Feeling everything I'd buried rise to the surface with the force of a tidal wave.

I'd worked so hard to let go. And now . . . he was a part of me again. In the most irreversible way.

I turned onto my side, pulling the blanket up to my chin, breathing slowly. I could feel the shift inside me, like the world had tilted just slightly.

I was going to be a mother.

And for once, I didn't need anyone else to tell me what to do. I didn't need Cole. I didn't need validation. I didn't even need forgiveness for the pieces of me that still missed him in the quiet.

I just needed to protect this little life.

I would do that with everything I had.

I would raise this baby with love. With light. With all the strength I had built from every heartbreak, every disappointment, every sleepless night.

And maybe one day, I'd tell them about their father.

About how he loved with intensity. About how he broke me, but also helped me become someone stronger.

But not now.

For now, it would be just us.

And that was enough.

More than enough.

I didn't know what the future held. But I knew what I wanted it to be: safe, warm, full of gentle mornings and laughter echoing off kitchen walls.

It wouldn't be perfect.

But it would be real.

And as I finally drifted to sleep, hand resting softly over my stomach, I whispered one last promise.

"I've got you."

Because I did.

And I always would.

The next morning, I woke up with a strange calm in my chest, the kind that comes after a long night of storms.

The sun filtered through my window, and for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel lost. I moved slower, more mindful, brushing my fingers across my stomach like I was learning to love someone I hadn't met yet.

Maybe I was.

My life, once drifting without purpose, suddenly had direction—had meaning greater than ever before.

I made breakfast humming softly, letting the sound fill the silence. This life inside me—it wasn't a complication.

It was a beginning. And with each breath, I knew: I was no longer alone.

I stood there a little longer, letting the sunlight warm my face, thinking about names, lullabies, and tiny socks. It was surreal, but it was mine.

This journey, this child—wasn't tied to pain anymore. It was hope. A quiet promise of something better. And for the first time, I truly believed it.

"Are you okay?"

I paused mid-sip, the ceramic cup of tea hovering just inches from my lips. My mother's question had come out of nowhere, soft but direct, the kind of question only a mother could ask without flinching.

"Eve," she said, her eyes not quite meeting mine, "is there something you want to tell me?"

I swallowed hard, setting the cup back onto its saucer with more force than necessary. The clink of porcelain against porcelain seemed too loud in the quiet corner of the café.

I glanced outside the window, watching strangers pass by with their coffees and conversations and uncomplicated lives.

For a moment, I considered lying. Or brushing it off with a laugh. But that moment passed quickly.

She knew.

Of course she knew.

Mothers always know. Even before the words are spoken. Even before the truth is ready to be set free.

We were sitting across from each other at our favorite little café—an old, cozy place tucked away from the city's noise.

The air smelled of chamomile and cinnamon, and our table was warmed by a thin ray of afternoon sunlight. It was supposed to be a peaceful mother-daughter afternoon. Just tea. Just small talk. Just us.

And yet here we were.

I had been waiting for the right time. Hoping for a moment that felt natural, where I wouldn't stumble over the words or cry halfway through.

But maybe no such moment existed. Maybe the "right time" was always just one breath away from the truth.

I looked at her. My mother. Her soft face, lined gently from years of worry and laughter, stared back at me. She didn't push. She didn't repeat herself. She simply waited, like she always did, with love and patience wrapped around her like a shawl.

I lowered my gaze to my hands.

"They confirmed it last week," I said quietly, my voice barely above the hum of the other customers. "I'm . . . pregnant."

Her reaction was immediate—but quiet. Her eyes blinked, just once. Her lips parted as if to say something, but no sound came out. She reached across the table and gently took my hand in hers.

"For how long?" she asked after a beat.

"Four months," I whispered. "I know. I should've told you sooner. I just . . . I wasn't ready." She thought it was just her irregular periods.

My mother squeezed my hand, and for the first time in weeks, I felt safe enough to let the tears well up.

"I kept trying to convince myself it wasn't real," I continued, voice shaking. "That my missed periods were just stress. That the nausea was food poisoning. But I knew. Deep down, I knew. I was just too afraid to face it."

"Because of him?" she asked, though not unkindly.

I nodded. "Because of Cole."

The name hung in the air like smoke. Neither of us said anything for a moment.

Then she did something I didn't expect. She smiled. Not the kind of smile people give when they're happy—but the kind they give when they understand. When their heart has already softened around the truth.

"Eve," she said, her thumb brushing mine, "you're going to be a mother."

Her words cracked something open in me. I had been carrying the truth in silence, wrapping it in layers of shame and confusion and fear.

But now, with her saying it out loud—with love in her voice—I felt something else bloom alongside it.

Joy.

"Yes," I breathed. "I am."

"You didn't have to carry it alone," she said gently. "We're here for you."

"Thank you."

She nodded, and we sat there, just holding hands, surrounded by the soft clinking of cups and low murmurs of other conversations. The moment was imperfect, but it was ours.

The waitress came by to refill our tea, and we thanked her with small, distracted smiles.

As the warmth returned to my cup, so did the steady beat of courage in my chest.

Maybe the road ahead would be uncertain. Maybe there would be days where I'd doubt myself or cry for no reason or feel the sting of Cole's absence all over again.

But today, in this little café, I had told the truth.

And that was enough.