All Chapters of THE MEET UP: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

He doesn't call for three days.Seventy-two hours of silence. Four thousand, three hundred and twenty minutes of wondering if I destroyed us.I sleep slightly. eat slightly. Just work and stay and replay that conversation in an endless circle.I do n’t know.Two words that might have ended everything.My coworker David — different David, Rwandan David, my site coordinator — notices. Brings me coffee on day three. Sits beside me at the construction site.“ You look terrible, Sarah. ”“ Thanks. That’s exactly what I demanded to hear. ”“ What’s wrong? Project stress? ”I want to lie. I should lie. Rather, I tell the truth because I’m too exhausted to pretend.“ Boyfriend stress. Long distance. I f*ck*d *p. ”He’s quiet for a moment. Also,“ The artist? From Kampala? ”“ Yeah. How did you — ”“ You talk about him constantly. ” He smiles. Not unkindly. “ He’s lucky. To have someone who loves him that important. ”“ I told him I did n’t know if I want to marry him. While we’re thousands of

Fifteen months becomes twelve. Then nine. Then six.I count down obsessively. Days are marked on my calendar. X’s cover dates like victories.It’s May. Five months until I go home. Five months until I marry Amon.The project is belting up. Phase three is complete. Original team trained. Everything I came then to do — done.I should feel accomplished. Proud.Rather, I feel exhausted. Ready to be home. Ready to stop living through defenses.My phone rings. Amon. Our nightly call.I answer. His face fills the screen. He looks tired. Stressed.“ Hey, you. ”“ Hey. How was your day? ” His voice was flat. Off.“ Good. We perfected the sustainability protocols. Diane says Amon, what’s wrong? ”He’s quiet for a moment. Also,“ I got offered something. A gallery show. In New York. Three months. Starting in June. ”My stomach drops. “ June? That’s when I come home. ”“ I know. I told them no. Obviously. ”“ Wait. What kind of show? ”“ Major gallery. Career-making. The kind of opportunity that d

Time rushes toward my wedding, yet drags its feet at the same time.Chaos lasted fourteen days straight. From the start, Mama Grace ran things — sharp, loud, never pausing. Then there was Jjajja Florence, hands raised, muttering words that made little sense but felt heavy. In the middle of it, Miriam stood calm, her voice steady when everything else spun. Amon? He vanished into the background, claiming tradition gave him permission to stay quiet, to wait until called.Smart man.This moment has arrived. August twenty-ninth. Me turning into Sarah Kato today.Footsteps carry me into Mama Grace’s room. Once just a spare space, now dressed up for weddings. Glass catches my shape, fixed there. My eyes won’t leave what they see.Something about it just stands out. Not quite cream, not quite gold — that kitchen cloth holds its own. Cuts a shape that feels new. Yet every thread sings an old song. Like me, only sharper around the edges.Miriam zips me up. “Breathe. You look like you’re about t

I’m late.Twelve days past due. Not tied to any appointment. Just waiting for my cycle.The clock ticks slowly. My fingers grip the plastic stick tighter. Eighteen decades of breath held between now and what comes next. Everything shifts after this moment passes.Half a year since the wedding day now. A child is neither on hold nor being chased down. Living right inside that fuzzy zone where whatever comes along comes along.It caught me off guard, honestly. Way earlier than expected. Right at the beginning of my new job helping clients. While we’re still learning not to drive one another crazy over toothpaste caps.BEEP. My phone makes a sound when the countdown finishes.I look at the test.A pair of strokes. Bold, clear beyond doubt.Pregnant.“Fuck.”Pregnancy has changed everything. This child belongs to Amon and me. Starting a family wasn’t planned — now it’s our reality.Fear sits heavy, though happiness should be here. Joy expected, yet anxiety shows up instead. What ought to

Nobody tells you how hard the first thr‍ee mo‍n‌ths are⁠.Or maybe the​y do and yo‍u don’t b‌elieve them. Can’‌t beli​eve them. Until y​ou’‍re li​ving it.Ayana is eight weeks old. Si​x​ty-o​ne days. One th⁠ousand‍, four hundred and sixty-four hours of not sleeping,⁠ barely eat‍ing, co‍nstantly⁠ wor​r​ying.I’m a f‍ucki‍ng disaster.It’s 2 AM. I’m s‍i⁠tting on th‌e nu⁠rsery floor​. Cry​ing⁠. Ayana’s crying. Amon’s somew​here​ trying to heat a bot‍tle.⁠She won’‌t st​op. W⁠on’t ea‍t. Won’t sle‌ep.‍ Just scr⁠eam​s an⁠d sc‍reams and scre‌ams.I⁠’ve checked everything. Diaper. Temper⁠a⁠ture. Burpe‍d‍ her. Rocked h‍er. Sung to her. No⁠th‍ing wo‌r‌ks.⁠“⁠I don’t know what you want!”‌ I’m cryin‍g‍ harder​ than she is now. “Please. Pl​e⁠ase j‍ust t‌ell me what you ne‌ed.”Amon appears. Takes Ay‍a⁠na ge​ntl‌y. “Go​ to sleep. I’ve⁠ got this shift.​”“I can’t sleep. I​’ve‍ forgot⁠ten h‌ow‌.”“Try. Please. Y⁠ou’re run‌ning on empty.”‍I stumbled to our bedroom. Collapse on t‌he bed​. Still hear‌