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Sarah
I did it.
I lied to Matthew about my pregnancy, and he seems to believe it.
But now what?
I can’t keep up this lie forever. Eventually, he’s going to expect to see a growing belly, doctor’s appointnts, and ultrasounds. Real ones, not the fake picture I ordered online.
I pace around my kitchen after Matthew leaves, running my fingers through my hair. He looked so devastated, so trapped. But he chose . That’s what matters.
Isn’t it?
The guilt gnaws at , but I push it down. I have maybe a month, two at most, before I need to stage a miscarriage. It’s awful to even think about, but what choice do I have? I’ve started this; I have to see it through.
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Matthew: I told Amanda about the baby. She didn’t take it well.
My stomach twists. Of course she didn’t. I wouldn’t either.
I need to buy that ti.
"I texted back: I’m sorry. Are you okay?"
I’m not sorry at all, but I need to appear sympathetic. I need to play this right.
Three dots appear, disappear, then reappear. Finally: Not really. Need so ti to process. Talk tomorrow.
I set my phone down, a strange mixture of triumph and dread washing over . I’ve won, but at what cost?
For the next week, I maintain the charade ticulously. I download pregnancy apps on my phone where he can see them. I leave prenatal vitamin bottles visible on my kitchen counter. I make a show of feeling nauseous during etings, excusing myself at strategic monts.
Matthew is attentive in a detached sort of way. He calls daily, asks how I’m feeling, and whether I need anything. He’s going through the motions, doing what’s expected of a man whose one-night stand resulted in an unplanned pregnancy.
Two weeks after my announcent, he takes to dinner at an upscale restaurant downtown. I wear a fitted dress, not yet needing to fake a baby bump. He pulls out my chair, orders sparkling water instead of wine.
"I’ve been thinking," he says halfway through the al, setting down his fork. "We should move in together."
I nearly choke on my risotto. "What?"
"It makes sense," he continues, clinical and practical. "If we’re going to co-parent, we should at least try to build sothing stable. And I need to be there when you are about to give birth."
"Matthew..." I start, suddenly unsure. This is what I wanted, isn’t it? Him, choosing , building a life with .
"Unless you don’t want that," he adds quickly.
"No, I do," I say. "I just...I thought we could get married instead."
Matthew blinks, taken aback.
"Married?" he echoes, carefully.
I nod slowly, trying to keep my voice from shaking. "We’re going to be parents, Matthew. Moving in together feels temporary. Marriage is commitnt. Security. It’s doing things right."
He looks down at his plate, jaw tight. "Sarah, we barely have a relationship."
I lean forward, resting my hand lightly over his. "But we can, can’t we?"
Matthew sighs, rubbing his forehead. "This is a lot."
"I know," I whisper. "But we’re in it together, right?"
He hesitates, longer than I like and then gives the faintest nod. "We’ll talk about it."
It’s not a yes. But it’s not a no.
When we get back to my place that night, he doesn’t co up. Just kisses my cheek and says he’ll call tomorrow.
As the door clicks shut behind him, I slide to the floor in the dark hallway, heart pounding.
But I’ve co this far.
I’m not turning back now.
~-~
The next morning, I am curled up on the couch, watching TV, when my phone rings.
Dad.
"Hi, Dad," I answer.
"Sarah," he says, his voice low, calm in the way that ans he’s anything but. "Is there sothing you want to tell ?"
I close my eyes. Crap. Does he know?
"About what?"
"Don’t play gas with . Matthew ca to today, asking my permission to marry you. He said you were pregnant. What the hell is going on, Sarah?"
I sit up, suddenly cold. The lie is going too far now.
My throat goes dry.
Matthew did what?
He asked my dad for permission? I can barely process the words. That wasn’t part of the plan. That wasn’t supposed to happen until I had it all figured out, until I decided how to end this cleanly.
"Sarah," Dad presses, sharp now. "Are you pregnant or not?"
"Yes," I whisper, swallowing hard. "I am."
There’s silence on the line.
"I see. Well, I’ve given him my permission and we will need to arrange this wedding as soon as possible. Your mother is not going to be happy about this, but what choices do we have?" Dad says irritably.
I want to laugh. Or cry. I can’t tell which.
This was supposed to buy ti, give leverage. But instead, it’s speeding everything up. The walls are closing in faster than I thought they would.
"What about Mom?" I ask, voice barely audible.
"She’s furious," he admits. "But she’ll co around. Once the wedding’s planned. Once there’s a grandchild to fawn over."
I press my free hand to my forehead, trying to stay upright. My head spins.
"Dad, this is all happening really fast—"
"Exactly," he cuts in. "You need to act fast. The longer we wait, the more scandal this could beco. People will talk. And Matthew, well, he’s not exactly husband material in your mother’s eyes yet, but if he’s stepping up, we’ll deal with it."
I nod even though he can’t see . My mouth moves to respond, but nothing cos out.
"You’ll call your mother later," he says flatly. "Start thinking about venues. End of discussion."
Then he hangs up.
Just like that.
I stare at the dark screen, numb.
Now everyone believes the lie.
And I’m getting married.
But there is no baby.
And no way out.
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