Chapter 2

　　The crackers were called Golden Wheat, and they tasted like cardboard soaked in salt. For weeks, they were the only thing my body allowed to stay down.

　　Everything else came back up.

　　Lucas never commented on it.

　　His apartment was small. One bedroom, one bathroom, and a kitchen that barely deserved the name. The couch had a permanent dip in the middle, like it had been holding the same position for years and had no intention of changing.

　　When I showed up at his door that night, one bag in my hand and no explanation worth giving, he didn't ask questions.

　　He just stepped aside and let me in.

　　Lucas never needed the explanation first.

　　Three days later, I told him the truth.

　　Divorce. Mutual. I'm fine.

　　He looked at me the way he always did when he knew someone was holding something back. That quiet, lawyer's look that didn't accuse, didn't push, but saw everything anyway.

　　He poured me a glass of water and handed it to me.

　　"Okay," he said.

　　That was all.

　　No lectures. No I told you so, even though he had said exactly that more than once, back when Adrian and I were still pretending everything was fine.

　　Lucas just made sure there was food in the fridge, clean towels in the bathroom, and space when I needed it. And somehow, he always knew when to sit close without asking and when to disappear without making it feel like I was alone.

　　The mornings were the hardest.

　　Not because of Adrian. I told myself that firmly.

　　It was the nausea.

　　It showed up every morning around six, precise and unforgiving, like it had a schedule it refused to break. By the time the sun was fully up, I was already sitting on the bathroom floor, breathing slowly, waiting for it to pass.

　　I hadn't told anyone about the pregnancy.

　　Not Lucas.

　　Not anyone.

　　Saying it out loud made it real in a way I wasn't ready to face yet. Keeping it inside felt… safer. At least for now.

　　I kept the test in the front pocket of my bag.

　　I couldn't throw it away.

　　Three weeks passed like that.

　　One morning, Lucas knocked on the bathroom door at around six-thirty. I told him I was fine. He said nothing else and went to make coffee.

　　A few minutes later, the bag tipped over from where it was resting on the counter.

　　Everything fell out.

　　I heard it before I saw it.

　　The soft thud of items hitting the floor, followed by silence.

　　A very specific kind of silence.

　　I froze.

　　Lucas had stopped moving in the hallway.

　　Then came the quiet understanding. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just… immediate.

　　He didn't say anything for a moment.

　　Then the bathroom door opened.

　　I had forgotten to lock it.

　　He stepped in, looked at the mess on the floor, and then slowly lowered himself to sit beside me, his back resting against the side of the bathtub.

　　His long legs stretched out in front of him.

　　In his hand, he held the pregnancy test.

　　I didn't reach for it.

　　He turned it over once, then set it down gently between us.

　　His expression changed, but not in a loud way. It was subtle. Careful. Like he was holding back more emotion than he was letting show.

　　"How long?" he asked quietly.

　　"Seven weeks," I said. "Maybe eight."

　　He nodded slowly, absorbing it.

　　I watched him carefully, waiting for something. Questions. Anger. Something sharp or loud or complicated.

　　It didn't come.

　　Instead, he took a slow breath through his nose, then leaned his head back against the tub.

　　He didn't say Adrian's name.

　　Not once.

　　"Does he—"

　　"No."

　　The answer came out before he could finish.

　　Another nod.

　　Longer this time.

　　The silence in the bathroom wasn't uncomfortable. It was heavy, but steady. Outside, the city kept moving. Cars passed. Someone played music too loud from another apartment. Life carried on without slowing down for anything.

　　Lucas finally turned his head to look at me.

　　"Tell me what you need," he said.

　　Not questions. Not advice.

　　Just that.

　　I stared at the ceiling for a moment, trying to gather myself.

　　"Golden wheat crackers," I said finally. "Not the plain ones. Those taste like regret."

　　He let out a short laugh, unexpected but real.

　　"Golden wheat," he repeated. "Got it."

　　That was it.

　　He stayed there with me until I felt steady enough to get up. No pressure. No urgency. Just presence.

　　It was the first time in days that I felt like I wasn't carrying everything alone.

　　I didn't tell him about the money.

　　It came four days later.

　　A notification on my phone.

　　A wire transfer.

　　Two million dollars.

　　I stared at the screen, not fully processing it at first. Then I opened the message attached to it.

　　Three lines.

　　Adrian's words.

　　For your silence and your future.

　　I read it once.

　　Then again.

　　And again.

　　The room felt smaller somehow, like the air had shifted.

　　I sat down slowly, my phone still in my hand, the message glowing back at me.

　　I didn't react right away.

　　I went to work the next day. Came back. Ate crackers. Slept. Woke up. Looked at the message again.

　　Three days passed like that.

　　On the third day, I opened my banking app and transferred every cent back.

　　I didn't overthink it.

　　I didn't draft a reply and delete it ten times.

　　I just wrote one line in the note field.

　　I don't need your money. I never needed anything from you.

　　Then I sent it.

　　And I put my phone face down on the counter like that was the end of it.

　　I didn't tell Lucas.

　　Not then.

　　Not ever.

　　He would have turned it into something bigger. He would have found a way to respond, legally or otherwise. He would have made it a fight.

　　I didn't want a fight.

　　I wanted silence.

　　For Adrian to receive his money back and sit in it. To wonder. To not understand.

　　I hoped it bothered him.

　　I still do.

　　Six weeks later, my clothes started fitting differently.

　　Barely. Subtly.

　　Enough that I noticed.

　　Lucas noticed too.

　　He didn't say anything. He just quietly rearranged the kitchen so the crackers were within reach without effort.

　　I started reading baby books at night, using my phone flashlight so the light wouldn't leak out into the room.

　　I still didn't have a plan.

　　Not a clear one.

　　But something had shifted inside me during those weeks.

　　It wasn't loud.

　　It wasn't dramatic.

　　It was steady.

　　I had walked away from a life, returned money I didn't ask for, and chosen to carry something I hadn't fully explained to anyone.

　　And somewhere in that quiet, I realized something.

　　I wasn't falling apart.

　　I was starting over.

　　And whether I was ready or not…

　　I was going to have to figure out exactly what that meant.