Page 101 of Nine Months to Love

He makes two cups and hands me one. The ceramic is warm against my palms.

“Let’s sit outside,” he suggests.

Again, all I offer is a lifeless “sure.”

I follow him through the French doors to the patio. The backyard is exactly as I remember it, though the fountain isn’t running. Something about the silent stillness is vaguely eerie in a way I can’t explain.

We sit in the wrought-iron chairs. The cushions are damp with dew. I shift, trying to find a comfortable position, though it’s the kind of night where there’s no comfort to be found anymore.

Dad takes a sip of his coffee. “So. What brings you by?”

“I needed to get out of the house for a bit.”

“Stefan’s house?”

“Yes.”

“Your mother mentioned you were staying with him.” He pauses. “She seems quite pleased about it.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing.

We sit in silence, like we’re strangers at a bus stop who happened to make eye contact and now feel obligated to acknowledge each other’s existence.

“How’s work?” I ask finally.

“Busy. The merger with Jameson Holdings is moving forward. Should be finalized by the end of the quarter.”

“That’s good.”

“Yes. Your mother is excited. She’s been quite instrumental in making it happen.”

“I’m sure she has.”

More silence. I take a sip of coffee. It’s good. Strong. The way I like it.

“How’s the clinic?” Dad asks.

“It’s fine. We’re opening a new location at Mass Gen.”

“Your mother told me that, too. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

He nods. Sips his coffee.

Christ, this is excruciating.

I’ve had deeper conversations with Uber drivers. Hell, I’ve had deeper conversations with the woman who waxes my bikini line. Is this really all we have to say to each other? Polite questions about work? Surface-level updates that mean absolutely nothing?

I think about Elena. It’s so easy to talk to her. She asks real questions and actually listens to the answers. She tells stories about Stefan as a child and makes me laugh until my sides hurt.

Then I think about Stefan. We can sit in comfortable silence or argue about everything or share secrets in the dark. He knows what I’m thinking before I say it. He makes me feel seen. Even when we’re fighting, even when he says cruel things, there’s still... something. A connection. An understanding. A flame.

With my own father, there’s… nothing.

Just this forced politeness. This hollow performance of what a father and daughter should be.

“I’m pregnant,” I blurt out.