Jocelyn’s POV
The nausea hits while I'm reviewing budget spreadsheets.
One second I'm fine, calculating quarterly projections. The next, my stomach lurches violently and I'm sprinting for the bathroom, hand clamped over my mouth.
I make it. Barely.
Afterward, I sit on the cool tile floor, forehead pressed against the porcelain, trying to remember what I ate that could've triggered this. Nothing unusual. Just coffee and toast this morning, same as always.
Except the coffee tasted wrong. Metallic, almost. I'd dumped half the cup thinking maybe we needed to descale the machine.
My phone buzzes. Text from Maya: ‘Board meeting in 20. You good?’
I push myself upright, rinse my mouth, check my reflection. Pale, but functional. Professional enough to fake it.
‘On my way,’ I text back.
The meeting's fine until Rachel Brennan mentions potential filming dates. Then my stomach does another flip and I have to excuse myself again.
"You okay?" Zayden asks when I return, concerned.
"Something I ate, probably." The lie tastes bitter. "I'm fine."
Except I'm not fine, because this is the third time this week I've thrown up. And my period is—I pull up my cycle app under the table, checking dates I already know by heart.
Twelve days late.
Fuck.
I manage to survive the rest of the meeting through sheer force of will. Afterward, Zayden has calls scheduled back-to-back, which gives me exactly the opening I need.
"Taking a long lunch," I tell Maya. "Personal errand."
She glances up from her laptop. "You sure you're okay? You look…"
"I'm fine." Too sharp. I soften it with a smile. "Just need some air."
The clinic is three blocks away—one of the facilities our foundation partners with for low-income families. I've been here dozens of times for work meetings, but walking through the doors as a patient feels different.
Vulnerable. Exposed.
"Can I help you?" The receptionist is young, friendly, doesn't recognize me.
"I need to see a nurse. Nothing urgent, just... I think I might need a pregnancy test."
She hands me a clipboard. "Fill this out. We'll call you shortly."
The waiting room smells like antiseptic and old magazines. I sit between a teenager texting furiously and a woman bouncing a fussy toddler. Both of them look exhausted in ways I remember too well.
Ten years ago, I was the teenager. Terrified, alone, staring at a positive pregnancy test in a gas station bathroom. No money, no plan, no idea how I'd survive.
Now I'm married, financially stable, Mia's healthy. We have a home, a foundation, a life we built from nothing.
So why does my chest feel tight with the same panic I felt at twenty-two?
"Jocelyn Wolfe?" A nurse appears in the doorway.
I follow her back to an exam room that's too bright, too small. She takes my vitals with practiced efficiency.
"So you think you might be pregnant?" she asks, typing notes.
"My period's late. Twelve days. And I've been nauseous, tired, my coffee tastes weird..."
"And you're sexually active? No birth control currently?"
I almost laugh. "I'm married. We're not exactly careful."
She doesn't smile, just nods. "When was your last period?"
I give her the dates. She calculates, makes more notes.
"Based on timing, you'd be about five weeks if you are pregnant." She pulls out a small plastic cup. "We can do a urine test here, or I can send you home with a test to take when you're ready."
The clinical options feel surreal. Like I'm watching this happen to someone else.
"What would you recommend?" My voice sounds distant to my own ears.
"If you want immediate answers, we test now. If you'd prefer privacy and time to process, take one home." She pauses. "There's no wrong choice."
I think about Zayden at the office, buried in conference calls. About Mia at school, drawing tigers during art class. About how my life will change the second I know for certain.
"I'll take one home," I hear myself say.
She hands me instructions and a gentle smile. "Drugstore tests work just as well as ours. Take it first thing in the morning for most accurate results."
"Right. Morning." I'm parroting words without processing them.
"Jocelyn." She touches my arm lightly. "Are you okay?"
No. Maybe. I don't know.
"Just bringing up old memories," I manage. "I got pregnant at twenty-two. Alone, broke, terrified. This feels..."
"Different but similar?" she offers.
"Exactly."
"For what it's worth, the foundation you and your husband run has helped three of my patients this month alone." Her expression is warm. "Whatever happens, you've got resources now, support. That's not nothing."
She's right. It's not nothing. But it doesn't stop the fear from clawing at my throat.
The drugstore is anonymous—corporate chain, fluorescent lights, self-checkout lanes. I grab a basket and wander toward the pharmacy section like I'm browsing casually.
Pregnancy tests are on the family planning aisle, sandwiched between condoms and ovulation kits. There are too many options. Digital, regular, early detection, multi-packs.
I grab three different brands because my anxiety demands redundancy.
Then I add gum and magazines to the basket, burying the tests under innocent purchases. Like I'm ashamed. Like I'm twenty-two again, hiding evidence.
Self-checkout beeps as I scan items. The tests feel heavy in my bag as I walk back toward the subway.
My phone buzzes. Zayden: ‘How was lunch?’
Fine, I text back. ‘Grabbing groceries. Home soon.’
Another lie. They're stacking up, each one making my chest tighter.
I should tell him, should say "hey, I might be pregnant, let's figure this out together." That's what healthy couples do. They communicate, share.
But the tests are burning a hole in my purse, and all I can think about is what if.
What if I'm pregnant and Zayden isn't ready?
What if I'm pregnant and something goes wrong like it did with Mia?
What if I'm pregnant and my body fails again, differently this time?
What if I'm not pregnant and this panic was for nothing?
The subway rocks beneath me, carrying me toward home and decisions I'm not ready to make. A woman across from me is reading to her toddler—some colorful book about animals. The kid's giggling, completely absorbed.
Mia used to love books like that. Still does, actually, though she pretends she's too old for picture books now.
Would she want a sibling? We've never discussed it. Never needed to, because our family felt complete. Zayden, me, Mia. The three of us against the world.
But maybe...
No. I can't think like that. Can't start hoping before I know.
I get off at our stop, climb the stairs to street level. Our building comes into view—modest, lived-in, perfect. Mrs. Chen is watering plants on her stoop.
"Jocelyn! How's Mia?"
"Great. School field trip next week."
"She's a good girl. You're lucky."
"Very lucky," I agree, and mean it.
Inside our apartment, I hide the pregnancy tests in the back of the bathroom cabinet, behind tampons I won't need if the tests are positive.
The irony isn't lost on me.
I wash my hands, splash cold water on my face, try to look normal. Zayden will be home in two hours. Mia gets dropped off in one. I need to pull myself together, start dinner, pretend everything's fine.
Except nothing feels fine.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's Dr. Morrison, my therapist: Reminder: session tomorrow at 3pm.
Perfect timing. If I am pregnant, I'll need someone to talk me off the ledge of my own anxiety.
If I'm not, I'll need someone to explain why I feel both relieved and devastated.
The front door opens. Mia bounds in, backpack dragging, face lit up.
"Mom! We learned about butterflies today! Did you know they taste with their feet?"
"I did not know that." I pull her into a hug, breathing in her kid-smell—playground and fruit snacks and innocence.
"It's so cool! Can we look up more butterfly facts?"
"Absolutely. Let me start dinner first."
She races to her room, already chattering about metamorphosis and cocoons and transformation.
Transformation. Right.
I stand in our kitchen, hands braced on the counter, trying to steady my breathing.
Just one more night of not knowing. One more night before everything changes.
Or doesn't.