Page 37 of My Only (My First, My Last)

A yla

The hum of the waiting room TV at my OB-GYN’s office filled the space, the muffled voices of a daytime talk show blending into the background noise.

I sat near the receptionist's desk, flipping through a For The Culture magazine I’d grabbed off the table, though I wasn’t really reading. Just passing the time.

My eyes drifted to the stack of magazines beside me again. One caught my attention. Mommy Digest.

I hesitated. Then, before I could overthink it, I exchanged one magazine for the other, the glossy cover now resting in my lap.

I’d been coming to this OB-GYN since college, every summer, like clockwork. Same doctor. Same routine. Same annual conversation about renewing my birth control prescription.

But this year? This year felt different.

I ran my fingertips over the cover of the pregnancy magazine, my thoughts drifting back to two nights ago.

To Hassani.

To the way he held me.

To the way he whispered, “Let’s not do that anymore.”

The nurse called out another patient’s name, breaking my trance. I glanced down at the page I’d absentmindedly flipped open. It was an ad. A mother cradling her newborn, smiling down at them like they were her entire world.

My stomach tightened.

Was that something I wanted?

I exhaled, shifting in my seat.

Distracted again, my mind drifted back to two nights ago—to Hassani and what he said to me right before I fell asleep.

“You falling asleep on me, A. Boogie?” he asked, pressing his hand to my cheek.

I smiled, my eyes heavy. I was definitely falling asleep. I’d missed this bed so much that the moment I laid down, sleep wasn’t far behind.

Sleeping in the guest room didn’t feel good. Every night, I went to sleep with our disagreement on my mind and woke up thinking about it the next day. It was torture, but it was the only thing I felt I could control.

“I want us to go to couples’ counseling,” Hassani whispered. “If that’s okay with you.”

I blinked in response, my eyelids growing heavier.

“I think we need it,” he nodded, running his hand along my face. “I think it would be good for us.”

The appointment was set for tomorrow, and I was both anxious and intrigued.

With Hassani home the entire next day, we spent time searching for marriage counselors.

I wanted someone married, someone older.

To me, that was the next best thing to a husband or wife on their deathbed—people literally fulfilling the ‘til death do us part’ promise—because they were the only ones I felt were truly qualified to give marriage advice to people they didn’t know.

This doctor though, the one we found? She seemed like she knew her stuff. We’d see how that went.

A few feet away, a pregnant woman eased into a chair, sighing as she settled in. She placed a protective hand over her belly, absently rubbing it while scrolling through her phone.

She looked beautiful. The kind of radiant you see in maternity billboards—soft, glowing, at peace.

Something inside me squeezed.

I stared too long. I knew I did.

When she lifted her gaze, my cheeks heated. I quickly looked away.

Too late…

Our eyes met for the briefest second before she returned to her device’s screen, unfazed.

Still, I found myself stealing another glance.

What would it be like, to watch my belly grow rounder, fuller?

I couldn’t picture it. Not really. But I knew it could happen.

Just… not for me... yet.

At least, that’s what I’d always told myself.

I’d always loved babies, but having one? It had never been at the forefront of my mind. I’d been content with life as it was. Hassani and me. Our routines. Our travels. The dreams we built together.

But once…

Once, I thought about it. Really thought about it after Hassani made mention of it.

“I hope our children have your eyes.”

Hassani’s voice had been low, warm, filled with a kind of certainty I wasn’t expecting.

We were lying in bed, both of us wide awake in the middle of the night. He’d just moved back to New York from D.C., his new apartment only a short walk from mine. It was my first time spending the night there, and we’d been talking about everything and nothing.

I smiled into the dark. “Really?”

He reached over, tracing his fingers along my cheek. “Mm-hmm.”

I scoffed. “You’re the one with the world-famous eyes. Are you kidding me?”

Hassani chuckled, pulling me closer, his arm looping around my waist.

“Your eyes,” he murmured, “are like the rarest crystal balls, though. Every time I look into them, I see my future.”

He paused, pressing his forehead against mine.

“And it’s so bright, A. So damn beautiful.”

Hassani and I had talked about having kids a long time ago, but lately? It hadn’t come up.

And if I was being honest, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be the one to bring it up. Not now. Not with him in the middle of this massive project… even if the project wasn’t set to wrap up for another five years.

Would I be handling pregnancy alone? Would I be raising a baby alone while Hassani was buried in work?

I swallowed hard.

“Ayla.”

The nurse called my name, her gaze locking onto mine. She only had to say my first name—I’d been coming here for years.

“We’re ready for you.”

In the exam room, the nurse took my vitals, ran through the usual intake questions, then handed me the paper gown.

Routine.

Just like every summer.

I changed, then perched on the exam table, drumming my fingers on my thighs as nerves I hadn’t even noticed crept in.

Why was I nervous?

Nothing was different this year… right?

The door pushed open.

“Ayla,” Dr. Lenora Whitfield greeted, stepping in with her warm, knowing smile. “Welcome back.”

I giggled. “Good to feel welcomed in my second home.”

“You look great.”

I exhaled. “Well, at least I look it.”

She laughed. “How are things?”

“School’s out, so one less thing to stress about. That’s a win.” I shrugged. “What about you?”

“I get to see my favorite patient for her annual check-up.” She quirked a smile. “So I’m fabulous.”

I playfully rolled my eyes. “I know you say that to everyone, Dr. Whitfield.”

She gasped, pressing a hand to her hip. “I do not!”

I grinned.

Dr. Whitfield was in her early sixties, a highly respected Black OB-GYN with decades of experience. When I first came to her office, I’d researched everything—her credentials, her reviews, how long she’d been practicing. I even grilled her during our first appointment.

I didn’t want a rotating door of doctors.

I wanted just one .

Someone who knew me, who could follow my journey for years to come.

And I found that in her.

The appointment moved along in familiar rhythm.

She asked the routine questions about my health, cycle, any concerns. I had none. Everything was fine.

Until we reached the part I’d been dreading.

The part that had never made me nervous before.

Dr. Whitfield smiled knowingly.

“So…” she teased. “Are we renewing your birth control prescription today?”

I bit my lip, fingers curling around the edge of the exam table.

I didn’t answer.

Not right away.

She tapped my knee playfully, breaking the tension I didn’t realize had settled in.

“Ayla,” she mused, “every year I ask you about babies, and every year you tell me…” She pitched her voice high, mimicking me. “Not yet, Dr. Whitfield.”

I hollered a laugh. “I do not sound like that!”

“I’m just saying.” She smirked. “I think you like making me wait.”

I shrugged. “Well… this year might be different.”

Her eyebrows shot up.

I lifted a hand. “I’ll take the prescription renewal, though.”

Her expression softened.

I didn’t want to renew it.

But now wasn’t the right time.

I wasn’t going to tell her that, though.

Because then I’d have to say the rest of it.

That Hassani was drowning in work. That I was afraid of getting in the way. That despite sharing a bed again, things weren’t magically fixed. That bringing a baby into this mess felt… reckless.

I wasn’t ready to say any of that out loud… especially not to my doctor, who definitely didn’t need to know all that.

Dr. Whitfield studied me. Really studied me.

“Are you sure?” she asked gently.

I held her stare.

“Ayla, you’re in excellent health.” She tapped my knee again. “Your body is healthy now, but waiting too long…” she hesitated. “It increases the risks.”

I nodded. “I know.”

We’d had this conversation every year since my thirtieth birthday.

I could feel my eyes welling and, in that moment, couldn’t understand why.

She handed me a tissue before I even realized I needed one.

I blinked fast.

Damn it.

I forced a laugh. “I don’t even know why I’m crying.”

She smiled. “Look. Whatever’s on your heart, figure it out with that good husband of yours.” She winked. “But don’t let fear—or your idea of the perfect timing—make the choice for you. Because there’s never a perfect time, Ayla. There’s just the right time for you .”

I smiled back, dabbing at my eyes.

“I’m going to send in your refill to your pharmacy and, as always, I’ll give you a paper copy,” Dr. Whitfield informed, tapping my knee one last time before giving it a gentle squeeze.

* * *

The thick summer heat and the constant honking of horns greeted me the moment I stepped onto the streets of Manhattan after my appointment.

I inhaled sharply, closed my eyes for a beat.

Just breathe.

I needed to get behind closed doors before the sting in my eyes turned into full-blown tears.

I didn’t even know why I wanted to cry.

Maybe because I wanted something so bad now, but felt like I couldn’t have it.

Maybe because deep down, I already knew… if I even picked up the pills this time, I was going to take them.

A sharp horn blast snapped me out of my thoughts.

My head jerked up just in time to see the pharmacy I always went to for refills.

I exhaled slowly.

My fingers tightened around the crisp paper copy of my refill.

Just go in.

Just pick it up.

But my feet wouldn’t move.

My hand loosened. The printout crinkled as I shoved it into the back pocket of my cutoffs.

My breath hitched.

The weight of the moment pressing tight against my ribs.

I’ll get it later…

Or maybe I won’t.

I turned toward my car, blinking hard.

Don’t cry.

Not here.

Not now.

Why are you even crying right now, Ayla?!

I swiped my hands over my damp cheeks, whispering to myself, “Quit trippin’. This is not that big of a deal.”

But even as I said it…

I wasn’t sure if I was right.