Pregnant

~Katia~

I woke up to the sour taste of bile creeping up my throat, and my legs threw me out of bed before my brain could even catch up. The morning light seared into my eyes like punishment, and I stumbled across the cold floor, my feet slapping against the wood, straight into the bathroom. My knees hit the tile, and my head dipped into the toilet as I heaved, every muscle in my stomach wrenching like it was trying to pull itself inside out.

It was the third morning in a row. No, the fifth. Hell, I’d stopped counting.

I could hear my mother's footsteps behind me, the sharp, impatient kind that clicked like a metronome of judgment. I knew she would follow me. My mom never misses a chance to remind me that I’m a fuck-up. She stood in the doorway like a sentry, arms folded, her expression already set to that self-righteous scowl she reserved just for me.

“It’s been two weeks since you came back from Las Vegas,” she muttered, her voice hard, like she’d been rehearsing that line for maximum guilt.

I didn’t respond; my face was still half inside the toilet, and I wasn’t in the mood to explain how morning sickness works to the woman who had raised me with more slaps than hugs.

“David!” she yelled suddenly, like her voice alone wasn’t enough of a siren.

From somewhere in the house, I heard the crash of the remote hitting the floor, followed by heavy footsteps. Dad appeared a few seconds later, still wearing his worn-out robe, his hair a mess, and his face confused like someone had just told him his truck was pregnant.

“What is it, woman?” he grunted.

“Your daughter is pregnant,” my mother said with the kind of dramatic flair that should’ve come with a stage spotlight. “I’ve been watching her for some time now, and today is the day I've confirmed it. Katia is pregnant.”

I wished the toilet would just suck me down. Swirl me into the pipes, and flush me away from all of this.

“Martha, what do you mean? Our daughter is only twenty! How can she be pregnant?”

Gee, Dad. Should I draw you a diagram? I thought it, but I didn’t have the strength to say it. My hands were shaking, my forehead pressed to the cool toilet seat, and my stomach felt like it had been scraped with sandpaper.

Mom was already shoving the bathroom door open wider. “Katia, get out here!” she snapped.

I wiped my mouth with shaking fingers and pulled myself up, grabbing the edge of the sink. My reflection looked like a ghost with a hangover. I had pale skin, sunken eyes, and lips that were cracked and raw.

I stumbled out of the bathroom just in time to turn around and vomit again.

My dad’s face turned to panic. “Katia, why? Baby, tell me you ate something bad. Maybe it's food poisoning, an allergy, or something like that, right?”

Hope bloomed in his voice like he actually believed it. Poor man, my dad is the only person who has shown me love, not the woman who pushed me out to this world with her pussy and acted like it didn't matter. Mom only cared about my younger sister. To her, everything I have should be given to my sister Delia.

“Stop it, David,” Mom snapped. “Katia is pregnant.”

She reached into her bathrobe pocket and pulled out a small white box like it was a weapon. “I actually bought this yesterday. Just in case.”

She shoved it into my hand. The box was light but felt like it weighed fifty pounds.

“Go inside and pee. I’ll do it myself.”

“Of course you will,” I muttered under my breath. She didn’t care what I thought. Never did. This was never about me, not really. It was about what I’d done to her life, her reputation, and her delusions of having a perfect daughter.

I walked back into the bathroom with the test in my hand, my fingers clutching it like it might explode. The plastic felt foreign and wrong. My heart thumped behind my ribs like it was trying to escape.

I peed on the stick.

My mother barged in before I could even stand up properly and snatched the test out of my hands like a jailer collecting contraband. She marched out of the bathroom, her mouth twisted into that grim line that meant she was going to pretend she was the victim in all of this.

She stood there in the hallway, tapping one foot on the tile like she was counting the seconds until the results confirmed how much she hated me.

Two minutes later, she screamed.

“I TOLD YOU!” she bellowed, holding the test like it was bloody evidence. “She’s pregnant!”

My dad sat down slowly on the couch like his knees had given up. “Jesus Christ…”

“WHO IS RESPONSIBLE?” Mom yelled.

I didn’t say a word. My throat was dry and cracked, and no sound wanted to come out. Besides, she wasn’t asking. Not really. She was performing.

She stepped forward and slapped me so hard that my head jerked sideways, and for a second, the room spun.

“I ASKED YOU A QUESTION, YOU FUCKING SLUT!” she screamed.

The slap wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was how easy it was for her. Like it was second nature.

I started crying, my hands up but not really protecting anything. She didn’t care. She never did. Her love came with strings, with rules, with conditions I never managed to meet.

Her eyes narrowed, scanning me, like she was looking for more sins to accuse me of. That’s when she saw it. The ring on my finger and her whole body went still.

“What’s this?” she asked, her voice low now and dangerously calm.

She stepped forward and grabbed my hand. The ring wasn’t small; it was unmistakably bold. The silver band was smooth and heavy, sculpted like something out of another era. Set into it was a large, deep red gem that was so rich in color it looked like it had been plucked from the heart of a fire. It didn’t sparkle like cheap jewelry; it burned, slow and low, like it was alive with its own light. The design was intricate and elegant in a way that made you stop and stare, the kind of craftsmanship that whispered money without ever saying a word. You could feel the weight of it. The importance of it. Like it had a story.

The ring wasn't from any mall jewelry store, and it sure as hell didn’t belong on the hand of a girl like me. I searched for the ring online, but nothing. Because your girl didn't just get pregnant in Vegas; well, she also got married.

My mom started laughing. Not a normal laugh. Not the kind people do when something’s funny. It was manic, broken, and high-pitched, like something cracked inside her and spilled out in the shape of madness.

“WHO GAVE YOU THIS RING?” she shrieked, her voice ricocheting off the walls.

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. My voice felt like it had been locked inside me.

I looked at her, and then I looked past her to the blank TV, the broken remote, the wilted houseplant in the corner, and the chipped mug my dad always used, and I knew this wasn’t the end of the beginning.

This was the beginning of the end.

She shook the test in front of me like it was my death certificate. “You want to play grown-up?” she hissed. “Well, welcome to grown-up consequences. Who. Gave. You. That. Ring?”

I clenched my jaw. Her voice dropped lower, venom wrapped in velvet. “Are you ashamed of him, or is he just long gone?”

Dad finally spoke, voice thin. “Martha, stop.”

She didn’t even look at him. “Don’t defend her. She has no idea what she’s done.”

“I know exactly what I’ve done,” I said suddenly. My voice didn’t sound like mine; it was harder, raw, and scraped down to the bone. “It was a mistake.”

Her face twisted in disgust. “And now you’re going to ruin your life. You’ve thrown it all away.”

I looked at her for a long moment, and something cold settled in my chest. “You act like my life was ever mine to begin with.”

That shut her up for a second. Just a second.

“You’re not staying here,” she said, final and sharp.

“Martha—” Dad started again.

“No,” she snapped. “She made her choice. Let her figure it out.”