Chapter 5: Lily

The journal became my sanctuary over the following weeks. While James worked in his home office, I poured my fears, suspicions, and memories onto its pages, trying to make sense of the fragments.

*April 17: James brought home roses again today. Said they reminded him of me, beautiful but delicate. The way he said "delicate" made my skin crawl. Like I'm something that might break if handled too roughly. Or something that already has.*

*April 20: Started going through old emails about our fertility journey. Found messages about the Chicago clinic, but nothing alarming. James caught me and got upset. Said it wasn't "healthy" to dwell on the past. Suggested we delete all the old treatment emails since they're "triggers." I pretended to agree but saved them to a separate account first.*

*April 22: Morning sickness is finally easing. Eight weeks pregnant today. Baby is the size of a raspberry, according to my app. James wants to start buying nursery furniture already. When I suggested waiting until the second trimester, he got that look, the one that comes before the storm. I gave in. We're going shopping this weekend.*

I closed the journal quickly as I heard James's footsteps approaching. By the time he entered the bedroom, I was scrolling innocently through my phone.

"How are my two favorite people?" he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Good," I smiled, the expression feeling foreign on my face. "The nausea's better today."

"That's wonderful." He placed a hand on my stomach, which had just begun to show the slightest curve. "I was thinking we could invite your parents for dinner next weekend. To celebrate making it almost through the first trimester."

My parents adored James. To them, he was the successful, charming son-in-law who had stood by their daughter through years of fertility struggles. The generous man who had spared no expense to give me the baby I so desperately wanted.

"That sounds nice," I said, not meeting his eyes.

"Great. I'll call them tomorrow." He paused, studying my face. "You seem distant lately."

I forced myself to look up, to meet his gaze. "Just tired. Growing a human is exhausting."

"Is that all?" he pressed, his thumb tracing circles on my wrist. A gentle touch that somehow felt like a warning.

"What else would it be?"

He shrugged, too casually. "I don't know. You've been spending a lot of time writing in that journal Zoe gave you."

My heart stuttered. "It helps me process everything. All the changes."

"What kind of things do you write about?"

I kept my expression neutral. "Symptoms. Feelings. Questions about parenthood. Nothing exciting."

"Can I read it sometime?" The question sounded innocent, but his eyes were watchful.

"It's private," I said, trying to keep my voice light. "Just silly pregnancy thoughts."

His grip on my wrist tightened almost imperceptibly. "We've never kept secrets from each other, Lily."

The irony of his statement might have made me laugh if fear wasn't closing my throat. "It's not secrets. It's just... personal."

For a moment, tension crackled between us. Then, like a switch being flipped, he smiled and released my wrist.

"I understand. Everyone needs their space." He stood up. "I'm going to make some calls. Want anything from the kitchen?"

"No, thank you," I managed to say.

After he left, I sat frozen on the bed, my heart hammering against my ribs. He knew about the journal. Had he read it already? The thought made me feel violated, exposed.

I needed to hide it better. Or get it out of the house entirely.

My phone buzzed with a text from Zoe.

*Lunch tomorrow? My treat.*

I stared at the screen, an idea forming. Zoe was a lawyer. She dealt with evidence, with building cases, with protecting vulnerable clients. Maybe she could help me make sense of what was happening.

But what if I was wrong? What if I were letting pregnancy hormones and old insecurities turn me paranoid? James was under enormous pressure at work, with the pregnancy, and with his therapy. Was I being fair to him?

*Sounds great,* I texted back before I could change my mind. *Can you pick me up? James is going back to work tomorrow.*

Her response came immediately: *No problem. Noon work?*

I confirmed and set the phone down, a plan taking shape. I would bring the journal, show Zoe my concerns. She would either validate them or help me see where I was being irrational.

I needed an objective perspective from someone who loved me enough to tell me the truth.

That night, James was unusually attentive, massaging my feet, asking detailed questions about my day, and bringing up happy memories from our early relationship. It was as if he sensed my withdrawal and was trying to pull me back.

"Remember our first date?" he asked as we lay in bed. "That terrible Italian restaurant where the waiter spilled wine all over my shirt?"

I smiled despite myself. "And you took it off right there and wore your undershirt for the rest of the night."

"I was so desperate to impress you," he laughed, drawing me closer. "I would have sat there naked if it meant getting a second date."

"That definitely would have made an impression."

His hand traced the curve of my hip. "I knew that night you were the one. I told my brother I was going to marry you."

The memory should have warmed me. Instead, it made me sad for that younger version of myself, so confident in her choice, so certain of her future.

"I love you, Lily," James whispered against my hair. "More than anything in this world."

"I love you too," I replied automatically, the words feeling hollow.

His hand slipped under my nightgown, his touch gentle but insistent. I closed my eyes, trying to summon desire for this man I once couldn't get enough of.

"Is this okay?" he murmured, lips against my neck. "The doctor said it's safe."

I nodded, not trusting my voice. Physical intimacy had been rare since the positive pregnancy test, a combination of my exhaustion and his apparent fear of hurting the baby. This sudden desire felt calculated, another form of control.

Afterward, he fell asleep with his arm draped possessively across my body. I lay awake, watching the digital clock tick through the early morning hours, planning what I would say to Zoe.

When dawn finally broke, I eased out of bed and crept to the bathroom. Standing under the hot spray of the shower, I rehearsed different versions of my story.

*My husband hit me once. No, twice. But he's getting help. He's controlling and secretive. I think he's lying about something important. I'm scared, but I don't know if I'm being rational. I'm eight weeks pregnant with the baby we fought so hard for. What do I do?*

None of the versions sounded right. None captured the tangled mess of love and fear, hope and suspicion that had become my life.

As I dressed, I heard James moving around in the kitchen. The smell of coffee and bacon wafted up the stairs, another peace offering, another display of devotion.

I tucked the journal into my purse and plastered on a smile before heading downstairs.

"There she is," James beamed, pulling out a chair for me. "I made your favorite breakfast sandwich. Decaf coffee, just how you like it."

"Thank you," I said, sitting down. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble."

"Nothing's too much trouble for you," he replied, setting a plate in front of me. "Oh, I forgot to mention I ran into Zoe's assistant at the gym yesterday. Sounds like they're swamped with that pharmaceutical case. Probably working through lunch today."