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Then there are my amazing grandparents, who unfortunately are too old, too judgmental, and would probably tell me this is my penance for not settling down like a nice woman.

And then there’s Leif.

My stomach twists. No. I won’t drag him into this.

I’ve spent my entire life being independent, untethered, the person who fixes things herself. That doesn’t change now.

I take a slow breath, keeping my hands still in my lap, every limb locked down like I’m bracing for turbulence. The doctor watches me carefully, waiting for some kind of reaction. I could freak out. I could cry.

Instead, I nod like she just told me my car needs an oil change.

“Okay,” I say, my voice shockingly even. “So, what happens next?”

She hesitates, then launches into another explanation—options, appointments, vitamins, things I need to consider.

This time, I listen. Sort of. Definitely better than earlier.

But my mind is already miles away, sprinting toward a reality I never planned for.

I leave the doctor’s office feeling like my whole world just tilted slightly to the left.

It’s drizzling outside, a misty kind of rain that clings to my skin, the kind that isn’t quite enough to pull out an umbrella but just enough to be annoying. I step onto the sidewalk, watching cabs blur past, people moving in every direction like nothing has changed.

And then, because there is literally nothing else I can do right now, I sit down on a bench, drop my face into my hands, and let myself breathe.

A baby.

An actual human being that will depend on me for survival.

I press my palms into my eyes. This is impossible.

Because what kind of mother would I even be?

My life is a never-ending itinerary. Flights, hotels, interviews, cameras, countries that feel familiar for a moment before I leave them behind. I love my life. I chose my life.

But a baby?

A baby doesn’t fit into a suitcase.

People walk past, umbrellas spinning, voices blending into the hum of the city. Normally, that sound makes me feel alive. Right now, it makes me feel . . . adrift.

I think about my dad. His disappointment, the way he’ll say,You messed up again,without even needing to actually say it. I think about the baby’s father. The fact that this isn’t some grand love story where I tell him and he suddenly transforms into the perfect co-parent. Well, if I ever find him.

I think about how much easier it would be if I could just call my mom. She would know what to say. Where to start and . . . I miss her a lot. But I have no one to share this with.

I could call Leif. He would answer. But this isn’t something I want to bring up yet. Not until I know exactly what I’m doing.

I close my eyes, breathing in the smell of rain and pavement and city life moving forward, regardless of my crisis.

What am I going to do?

It doesn’t matter right now.

I take the subway to the hotel, letting the movement lull me into a state of semi-functionality.

The train is crowded but quiet, filled with people who have places to be. I watch them—a mom rocking a toddler in her lap, an old man reading a book, a college student nodding off against the window.

And I wonder if any of them have ever felt this lost. Or if I’ll ever find myself, which I might have to do because this baby will need me.