Page 40 of Midnight Between Us (The Timberbridge Brothers #4)

Chapter Thirty-Six

Keir,

I’ve been going through therapy as I try to figure out my future—and the baby’s.

It’s helped. I don’t cry anymore, not the way I used to.

I’m learning how to compartmentalize my feelings for you.

To fold them up, tuck them away, and only take them out when I’m in a safe space.

Sometimes that space is just a journal. Sometimes it’s here, writing to you.

Guess what? I graduated from high school early—just like I planned.

The shelter helped me track down my transcript, and with the credits I had, they expedited the process.

I wore a cap and gown for five minutes, as I wanted to take a picture to commemorate the occasion.

Then, I handed everything back. It wasn’t exactly a dream ceremony, but I still felt proud of myself.

I did something I wasn’t sure I’d finish.

Now I’m taking a couple of college classes, trying to figure out what’s next.

There’s this program—kind of like a full-ride scholarship.

They’ll pay for everything: tuition, books, housing, and even childcare.

The only thing they ask in return is that you work for them after graduation.

They’ve got options in business, nursing, education, tech .

. . even vet tech, which I know you’d joke about because I’m allergic to dogs and cats.

I keep thinking about med school. That was the goal, right? You remember how obsessed I used to be with it. But med school is ten years of my life. It’s long hours, debt, sacrifice. And raising a baby is all of that, too. It’s more. It’s every minute, every day, every heartbeat.

I’m due in early November. Crazy, right? I didn’t realize how far along I was until they did the ultrasound. Time has felt weird since I left—like it’s rushing past and standing still at the same time. I felt the baby kick last week. It was small, just a flutter. But it was real.

And it hit me—this isn’t some abstract thing anymore. This is a person. A tiny, growing person who didn’t ask for any of this but is coming soon.

If I choose to keep them, I don’t think I can be a doctor. Not the way I imagined. And that’s hard to admit. But I’m starting to realize that letting go of a dream doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you’re making room for something new. Something unexpected. Something that still matters.

I’m scared. Every day. But I’m also stronger than I thought I was.

I don’t know if you think about me. If you ever wonder. But sometimes when I talk to the baby, I imagine you listening too. Quiet, the way you always were. Just there, and also hearing everything I don’t know how to say out loud.

I’ll write again soon; it feels good to get all this out.

Loving you less,

Simone