Elara stared at the calendar, a red circle drawn around a date just two weeks away.


They had agreed to begin trying—not in a pressure-filled way, but with intention, with love. Still, the idea of planning something so profound felt strange. Life had always just happened to her: unexpected departures, lonely nights, discovered strength. This felt like creating life, not just reacting to it.


And that terrified her almost as much as it thrilled her.




Michael was gentle about everything. He didn’t turn it into schedules or apps. He lit candles, made dinner, played her favorite records while she sketched songs on the couch.


“This isn’t a test,” he told her one evening. “It’s just us. It’s love.”


She nodded, holding his hand. “I know. I’m just not used to love being… calm.”


He smiled. “Then let’s teach each other.”




They fell into a rhythm. Mornings were slower. Conversations deeper. Their laughter grew louder, but so did Elara’s thoughts.


What if her body couldn’t do what she asked of it?


What if the child inherited all of her fears?


What if the past still had roots inside her?




One night, after they’d made love, Elara lay awake, watching the ceiling. Michael stirred beside her.


“You’re thinking again,” he mumbled.


She laughed softly. “Always.”


“Want to tell me?”


She rolled toward him, resting her palm on his chest. “Do you think we’ll be good parents?”


“I think we’ll be real ones,” he said, without hesitation. “The kind that admit when they’re scared. The kind that show up anyway.”


“That sounds like a lot of work.”


Michael kissed her forehead. “It will be. But it’ll be ours.”




A few days later, Elara bought a journal. The first page was blank. On the second, she wrote:


“To the child I don’t know yet—

I’m scared, but I’m waiting for you.

Not as the woman I thought I had to be,

But as the one I’m learning to become.”


She closed the book and held it to her chest.


It had begun.