3

I wore my mother’s old pantsuit for the meeting at the clinic.

Not because it fit. 

Not because it was stylish. 

And definitely not because it made me look like a woman who had her life together.

I wore it because it was the only thing in my entire wardrobe that wasn’t jeans, a hoodie, or a diner uniform that permanently smelled like fried onions.

The pantsuit was a little baggy on me — okay, a lot baggy — but the fabric was sturdy. The kind of sturdy they don’t make anymore. You could probably survive a natural disaster in this thing. Tornado? Fine. Earthquake? Sure. Job interview that might determine whether your mother lives or dies? Absolutely.

I tugged at the sleeves as I walked to my car, trying to convince myself I looked “professional” and put together. The mirror on the visor didn’t help. My hair was doing that thing where it refused to cooperate, and the pantsuit’s shoulder pads made me look like I was about to challenge someone to a duel.

But I didn’t have time to fix any of it. 

I had a meeting with Beth in exactly one hour, and according to my phone, the drive to the clinic was one hour and ten minutes.

Well. Challenge accepted.

I sent a silent prayer to the traffic gods and gently turned the key in my mom’s old sedan. The engine coughed to life like it was waking up from a coma, but it moved, and that was all I needed. I pulled out into morning rush hour traffic, gripping the wheel like it was the last stable thing in my life.

“Okay,” I muttered to myself. “You’re wearing a pantsuit. You look responsible. You look mature. You look like someone who definitely has her shit together and is perfectly capable of growing a baby for nine months.”

I rehearsed what I’d say to Beth. Something calm. Something professional. Something that didn’t scream I’m desperate, please let me rent out my uterus so I can pay my mother’s medical bills.

I prayed that all my tests would come back healthy. 

The crawl of traffic didn’t help my nerves as I watched the minutes pass but not the miles. Despite knowing better, I was not about to be late, so I started weaving in and out of lanes.

And then the universe, in its infinite wisdom, decided to spice up my morning — or potentially teach me a lesson.

Because of course it did.

I took a sharp turn, eyeing the side street that I knew would let me cut in front of the traffic and get to the clinic with maybe one minute to spare. I was so proud of myself for thinking I’d make it that I must not have paid enough attention, because I slammed straight into a shiny red sports car.

A shiny red sports car that absolutely did not belong in morning rush hour traffic. 

A shiny red sports car that probably cost more than everything I have ever owned, combined. 

A shiny red sports car that screamed I have money, I have issues, and I want everyone to know both.

My sedan barely flinched. 

Old sedan: 1 

Shiny midlife‑crisis sports car: 0

But still, it didn’t look good for me.

We both pulled over to the side, allowing traffic to keep crawling at a snail’s pace with only a dozen or so horns blaring and people cursing at us. Like they were going to move any faster regardless.

The fact that cars were barely moving — and the roar of the sports car’s engine — were the only reasons I didn’t try to make a break for it.

“Well, that’s good,” I muttered, staring at the dent I’d left in the red car’s bumper. “Because I don’t have time for repairs. Or insurance claims. Or… insurance.”

Right. Insurance. 

Technically, I didn’t have that anymore. 

But in my defence, I only used the car for emergencies and to go to the hospital.

And getting to this meeting? 

Absolutely an emergency.

But I was wearing a suit, so I was manifesting that at least I looked like someone who had insurance.

I was still processing the situation when a deep voice exploded behind me. I guess the driver took his sweet time getting out of the car.

“What the fuck, lady?”

Lady?

Oh no. 

No, no, no.

I turned slowly, eyebrow already raised, blood rushing to my ears.

“Lady?” I repeated, offended on a spiritual level. “I’m pretty sure this midlife‑crisis penis extension of yours — which has no business being on the road during morning rush hour, might I add — is a clear indication that you are older than I am.”

His jaw dropped in disbelief.

Good. 

Let it.

He was tall. 

Of course he was tall. 

Didn’t even look that old, which made me even angrier in an irrational way. Tall in the way that made me feel like I’d accidentally wandered into a different species’ territory. Broad shoulders, expensive suit, hair that looked like it had been styled by angels or a very well‑paid barber.

And angry. 

Very angry.

He stepped closer, and I had to tilt my head back to keep eye contact. His eyes were sharp — the kind that could cut glass or make a grown man apologise for breathing too loudly.

Oh God. He’s not going to hit me, is he? 

Me and my big mouth.

“Do you always talk like that,” he asked, voice low, “or is today special?”

And just like that, I was back to being angry. 

Who does he think he is? 

You know what? Screw it.

“Oh, today is very special,” I shot back, practically gearing up for a fight. “I’m late, I’m stressed, and I’m trying to get to a meeting that might literally save my mother’s life. So forgive me if I’m not in the mood to apologise to your overpriced toy.”

His nostrils flared.

Mine did too, but only because I was trying not to cry from the stress and the sudden adrenaline crash. 

He seemed to soften — just a fraction — at the mention of my mom.

He looked at the dent again, then at my car, then at me scowling.

“You hit my car.”

“And your car hit my car,” I countered. “It’s called equality.”

He blinked. 

I don’t think he was used to people talking back to him. 

Or being as rational as I pretended to be while spewing totally irrational words. 

Or maybe he wasn’t used to people talking to him at all without bowing or offering him a sacrifice. I must admit I had a weird urge to bow or curtsy.

“Do you even have insurance?” he asked.

I opened my mouth. 

Closed it. 

Opened it again.

Busted. 

I’d rather go back to fighting.

“Define insurance.”

He dragged a hand down his face like he was reconsidering every decision that had led him to this moment.

You and me both, buddy.

Before he could say anything else, my phone buzzed.

Beth.

Shit.

I panicked, shoved past him, and practically sprinted toward the street I’d been eyeing earlier.

“Hey!” he called after me. “We’re not done here!”

I didn’t look back. 

I didn’t have time. 

I had twenty minutes to get to the clinic. 

Twenty minutes to not ruin my entire future.

I abandoned the car and ran the rest of the way, panting, sweating, and praying the pantsuit didn’t split down the back. My mother’s old suit was sturdy, but even fabric has limits.

The city blurred around me — honking cars, people shouting, the smell of exhaust and burnt coffee. My lungs burned. My legs felt like wet noodles. The shoulder pads bounced with every step like they were mocking me.

I reached the clinic doors, breathless, hair sticking to my forehead, heart pounding.

I had no idea if the man I’d just verbally assaulted — and whose car I’d bashed — would call the police on me. I refused to think about my car being towed away and the hefty fine I’d have to pay to get it back.

All I could think about was that this was my only chance to get enough money to make sure Mom got another shot at life — and maybe have some change left to deal with today’s repercussions.

I grabbed the door handle, took one last shaky breath, and stepped inside — straight into the blast of cold air‑conditioning.