Chapter 8

A Moment Of Normalcy

Alvara

The sunlight filtered into the room, unfamiliar but comforting. I opened my eyes slowly, letting it wash over me, warming my face in a way I hadn’t felt in weeks. Then it hit me, I was actually in my mother’s house, not the tiny quarters I had grown up in. This house wasn’t ours either; it had been given to us by the Vales before the wedding, a secret space to hide their househelps from prying eyes. A place to make sure we were under constant watch. We knew better, this house was never truly ours.

I stood immediately and checked the bedsheets, relief flooding me when I saw no stain, no sign of trauma. My baby was safe. My hands trembled slightly, and I pressed one to my stomach, willing the tiny life inside me to stay calm and safe.

I had spent weeks fighting fear and nausea, battling fatigue that left me trembling, and the thought of losing it all here made my chest tighten.

After freshening up, I stepped out to see my family. My mother hummed in the kitchen, a soft, familiar melody, stirring something long buried inside me.

Leo moved around, arranging the dining table for breakfast with his usual exaggerated care, clattering plates lightly in a rhythm I remembered from childhood. For a moment, I remembered what normal felt like, home. How far I had drifted from it, how heavy my life had become in such a short time.

“Good morning, sis,” Leo greeted as I approached, trying to sound cheerful.

“Good morning. How was your night?” I asked, smiling despite the heaviness in my chest.

“Great! You finally visited after so long, I slept like a baby,” he said, grinning from ear to ear.

“I wasn’t gone that long,” I replied, smiling back. “By the way, why are you still here? Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

“Chill, it’s Saturday. I’ve passed that level where you always force me to go to school. I’m a big boy now,” he said with a smirk.

“You’re a what?” I asked, trying to catch him, but he darted past me, laughing, too fast for me to grab him.

“No running around, Alvara!” my mother shouted from the kitchen, shaking her head, her voice carrying warmth and exasperation all at once.

“You’re very special now,” Leo said, walking up to me, voice quieter, softer.

“Because you’re carrying my niece, or nephew.”

I scoffed, trying to mask the pang of emotion in my chest.

“So I was never special before?” I asked, half teasing, half hurt.

“Well… a little,” he admitted with a shrug, avoiding my eyes.

“Wow! Mom, can you hear your son?” I said, smiling at him in disbelief.

“Do not mind him. With or without anything, you will always be special,” she said warmly, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder.

“Come eat. I made your favorite breakfast,” she added, guiding me toward the table, her hands lingering for a moment as if making sure I was okay.

“Leo, you know your sister is pregnant. No stressing her today, no unnecessary games,” my mom reminded him gently, her voice firm but kind.

“Okay, Mom,” he grumbled, clearly restraining some cheeky comment, but didn’t protest further.

“Alvara, you’re here to rest. Absolute rest. No running, no chores, no lifting, no cooking,” Mom said, her eyes soft but firm. “Anything you need, Leo can do for you. You must let us take care of you, even if it feels strange.”

“Mom! I’m pregnant, not handicapped!” I protested, feeling a sting of helplessness, the familiar discomfort of depending on others clawing at me.

“It doesn’t matter. You’re here to rest. That’s all that matters,” she said, her voice calm, patient, unwavering.

I sat down to eat, feeling cared for but strangely useless, fragile. Depending on others was always hard for me; letting go of control felt unnatural, like trying to breathe through a cage. But the quiet kindness of my family, the steady rhythm of their daily lives, soothed me, if only for a moment.

After breakfast, Leo began talking about school and the girl he liked. He gestured with his hands, animated, telling stories I half-listened to, laughing quietly at his jokes, enjoying the normalcy, the warmth. It felt strange, almost luxurious, to sit and listen without the shadow of Adrian’s coldness looming over me.

“So what happened after?” I asked, keeping my tone casual, trying to steer the conversation toward something light.

“What do you mean? Nothing happened after,” he said, trying to leave, but I grabbed his sleeve.

“Come back. You must finish your story,” I said, smiling, pulling him gently back.

He sat down back on the couch.

“Do not stress your mom, okay? She’s already stressed enough. Be strong so she can be strong. Your uncle is here, he can’t wait to meet you,” he whispered, placing a tentative hand on my stomach.

I felt a spark of warmth in my chest at his words, a small shield against the dread that had built up over weeks.

I slept on the couch after that, his voice the last thing I heard. He’d been doing this for days, pretending nothing was wrong whenever I woke.

My mother noticed every wince, every pause, and cried silently at night. My pain was theirs too, a weight pressing down on everyone I loved.

The nausea worsened over the weeks. Fatigue deepened. Random pain sent shivers through me at odd moments, panic gnawing at the edges of my mind. I lay awake for hours, nights stretching endlessly, wondering how I would survive the coming days.

******

One afternoon, my phone rang. I slowly rose from the bathroom floor, weak and dizzy, holding onto the edge of the sink. It was Mrs. Seraphina. I hesitated, heart tightening, then answered.

“Hello?” I said, sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to steady my breathing.

“Alvara, how are you doing?” Her voice was sweet, gentle, almost maternal.

“I’m fine,” I replied automatically, though the word felt hollow, tasteless, and meaningless.

“The month ends next week. People are asking questions. You must return immediately. The doctor has cleared you,” she said.

A weight settled over me. I had almost forgotten about leaving. The house I feared was waiting, each thought of a heavy stone in my chest. The approaching calendar felt like a countdown, each crossed-out day a small doom. My mother avoided the topic, and Leo’s behavior had grown strange, quiet, withdrawn, watching me with eyes that said more than words ever could. I did not want to leave, yet I knew I must.

The day finally came. Packing felt heavier this time, slower, and deliberate. I hid my notes carefully, Mom helping silently, her hands lingering over mine as if transmitting strength. Leo watched, angry but powerless, and none of us spoke our thoughts aloud. The air was thick with tension, love, and unspoken worry.

John was waiting outside when I stepped out, looking tense but professional. He took my bags from Leo’s hands. My mother hugged me tightly, lingering longer than necessary, as if imprinting her presence into me. Leo refused to meet my eyes, silent, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Mom,” I whispered, holding her hands, feeling their warmth against my own trembling ones.

“I promise I will be careful. I will be fine too,” I said, though I did not fully believe it.

She only nodded, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

As the car pulled away, I glanced back. Relief was gone. Fear had taken its place, curling around my chest like smoke. This was not an escape, only a pause, a fleeting moment of safety before the storm I knew awaited me. Something inside me had changed. I was going back, but I was no longer the same woman who had left, a part of me had hardened, sharpened, ready to endure, to fight, to protect the life growing inside me no matter what came.

Even as the city blurred past, my thoughts returned to the tiny hands, the warm voices, the home I would always carry inside me. The house I left behind, though not mine, had given me strength. And now, carrying that strength with me, I was prepared for the trials that awaited. I would not be broken. Not anymore.