Pregnancy is everything I expected—and nothing like I imagined.
Physically, it's brutal in ways nobody fucking warned me about. Morning sickness is supposed to be morning, right? First trimester, maybe second?
Wrong. Mine lasts until month five. Five full months of waking up nauseous, going to bed nauseous, existing in a constant state of queasy that makes everything taste like cardboard.
I crave the weirdest shit at the oddest hours. Pickles and ice cream is cliché. I want Thai food at 3am. Sushi—the cooked kind, because I'm not an idiot—at breakfast. Chocolate-covered pretzels dipped in ranch dressing.
Caelen doesn't even blink. Just orders whatever I want, whenever I want it.
My back aches constantly. Like someone's driving nails into my spine every time I stand, sit, or exist. Chiropractor visits become weekly. Sometimes twice weekly.
My ankles swell like I'm retaining the entire Atlantic Ocean. Shoes don't fit. Wedding ring gets tight. I'm basically a water balloon with legs.
And the nights. God, the nights. Can't get comfortable. Can't sleep on my stomach—obviously. Can't sleep on my back after month four. Side sleeping with seventeen pillows arranged like some architectural feat.
I groan getting up to pee for the fifth time. Groan rolling over. Groan existing.
Yet emotionally? Easier than I imagined. Because Caelen's there. Unwavering. Every single step.
Every doctor's appointment—he's there. Taking notes. Asking questions I forget to ask. Recording the heartbeat on his phone like it's the most important sound in the universe.
Every ultrasound—he's holding my hand. Staring at the screen like he's witnessing a miracle. Which, I guess he is. We both are.
Every blood test, every late-night panic about whether I'm doing this right—he's there with calm hands and steady eyes.
"Am I eating enough vegetables?" I ask at 2am, wide awake with anxiety and heartburn.
"You had three servings at dinner."
"But the baby needs—"
"The baby's fine. You're fine. We're doing fine." His voice is gentle. Patient. "Stop doomscrolling pregnancy forums."
He's right. Those forums are fucking terrifying. Every symptom is either normal or a sign of imminent disaster. No middle ground.
When I worry I'm drinking enough water, sleeping enough, taking my vitamins consistently—he reminds me I'm doing fine. Carries my stress like it's his own.
Which it kind of is now. Stress is communal property in this relationship.
He's obsessed with preparation. Like, actually obsessed. I married a man who's channeling all his protective instincts into baby-proofing and education.
He reads parenting books cover to cover. Not skimming—actually reading. Taking notes. Highlighting passages. I catch him at 1am with "What to Expect the First Year" open on his tablet.
Takes every class available. Infant CPR. Newborn care. Breastfeeding support—yes, he's there for that too, learning how to help me when the time comes.
Baby-proofs the penthouse until it resembles a padded palace. Outlet covers everywhere. Cabinet locks. Drawer locks. Corner guards on every sharp edge.
"You're going overboard," I tease, watching him install the fifth baby gate. Fifth. We have four doorways.
"No such thing." His eyes are serious. Dark and intense. "Our daughter will be safe if it kills me."
Our daughter. The words make my chest tight every time.
We found out the gender at twenty weeks. Girl. A tiny human girl currently using my bladder as a trampoline.
Caelen cried. Actually cried. Silent tears streaming down his face while staring at the ultrasound screen.
"A daughter," he whispered. "I'm having a daughter."
I laughed through my own tears. "We're having a daughter."
"We." He kissed me. Soft. Real. "Yeah. We."
I'm exhausted but grateful. This man—this fiercely protective, sometimes ridiculous man—will stop at nothing for our child.
Every small act proves it. The way he talks to my belly like she can hear him—she probably can, according to the books. The gestures—bringing me water before I ask, rubbing my feet without prompting, letting me steal all his pillows.
Every little smile aimed at my growing stomach. Like he's already in love with someone he hasn't met.
It reassures me. Grounds me. Makes the physical hell bearable.
But a shadow lingers. Quiet but persistent. That uncertainty we don't talk about but both feel.
Neither of us knows for certain if he's the father. Eight weeks pregnant. Seven weeks since Kael. Six weeks since we started.
The math's still brutal.
We've agreed: no stress, no drama, until the baby's born. No paternity test. No speculation. No letting Kael's desperation poison this.
We're building something real. Something that exists regardless of DNA.
But sometimes, late at night, I catch him staring at my belly with this look. Not doubt exactly—concern maybe. Fear of what we'll discover.
"What if she's not mine?" he asked once. Month six. Middle of the night. Both of us awake for no reason.
"Then she's mine," I said. "And I'm yours. That's enough."
"Is it?" His voice was small. Vulnerable.
"It has to be." I took his hand. Placed it where she was kicking. "Feel that? She doesn't know about paternity tests or DNA or any of it. She just knows you're here."
His eyes got wet. "I'm not going anywhere."
"I know."
The pregnancy becomes our time. With all its pains, its fears, its tiny miracles. Every kick bonds us closer. Every flutter reminds us what we're building.
I'm seven months now. Huge. Uncomfortable. Ready to be done but also terrified of what comes next.
The birth. The paternity test. The potential Kael custody battle. All of it looming.
But right now? Right now we're in our penthouse. She's kicking. He's reading another parenting book. I'm eating cereal at 10pm because nothing else sounds good.
We're building something fragile and beautiful. A life that'll forever change us both.
One moment at a time.