Chapter 3
The morning sickness came in waves, overwhelming and relentless.
I threw up at the slightest smell, couldn't keep anything down, and lost so much weight my cheeks began to hollow.
Laurel tried everything to tempt my appetite, changing up recipes day after day like she was competing on some cooking show.
She didn't earn much, but she still bought me the best prenatal vitamins and imported maternity formula she could find.
"Eat," she said, sliding a bowl toward me. "Don't you dare skimp. Our baby girl deserves a head start in life."
She was always so sure it was a girl.
"Girls are sweet, just like you," she'd say, grinning. "One day, the two of us are gonna give that bastard Frankie a heart attack."
Her jokes made me laugh.
But somewhere in the laughter, there was always a sharp pang.
Even just the name Frankie felt like a splinter buried in my chest.
I wondered what his reaction had been when Lesly told him she was pregnant.
He probably jumped for joy.
After all, she was the one he adored.
And this child inside me was just an inconvenient mistake he left behind.
Days passed. My belly slowly began to show.
I couldn't keep living off Laurel's kindness forever—so I started picking up freelance gigs online.
I sketched design drafts, the only thing I was trained to do.
I majored in jewelry design back in college, but after marrying Frankie, he had said, "Mrs. Browning doesn't need to be out there flaunting herself," and I obediently spent five years as a full-time housewife.
My skills had gone rusty.
When I first picked up the pencil again, my hand trembled so badly I could barely draw a straight line.
Even I couldn't stand the rough, awkward sketches I produced.
But Laurel secretly snapped photos of my drafts and posted them on her illustration account, which had hundreds of thousands of followers, captioned: "My bestie's comeback sketches—go easy on her!"
To our surprise, the response was overwhelming.
[Wow. These lines—so much soul. Is your friend a genius?]
[A little unpolished, but the talent is insane. Please post more.]
[Does she take commissions? I want to design a one-of-a-kind necklace for my wife.]
And just like that, orders began trickling in.
The pay wasn't much, but it covered my prenatal checkups and even let me treat Laurel to a few better meals.
I gave myself a pen name: Carlee Steele.
I was going to start a new life.
So the days went by—sketching, vomiting, hospital visits.
It was quiet, exhausting, but fulfilling in their own way.
Every now and then, I'd catch news of Frankie on the business channel.
The Browning Group had just landed another huge contract.
Frankie and his up-and-coming designer girlfriend Lesly attended a charity gala last night, looking inseparable.
In the photos, Lesly clung to his arm, her smile radiant, her hand flashing a massive, modern-cut diamond ring.
It made my old "outdated" wedding band look like a trinket from a vending machine.
There was a dull ache in my chest.
But just as quickly, the baby in my belly kicked, snapping me out of it.
"You little rascal," I whispered, cradling my stomach. "Are you mad on my behalf too?"
Almost as if in response, another tiny movement fluttered from within.
In that moment, all the bitterness and heartbreak melted into something warm and tender.
For this little life, I had to be stronger.
The due date was in early autumn.
But when it finally happened, there was no warning at all.
A sharp, blinding pain ripped through me while I was racing to meet a last-minute deadline.
Cold sweat drenched my back.
"Laurel..." I gasped, my voice warped by pain.
She came tearing out of her room with a sheet mask still sliding down her face.
"Holy shit. Are you—are you in labor?!" she shouted.
She panicked more than I did, fumbling around, grabbing the hospital bag she'd lovingly packed with money from her illustrations, then half-carrying, half-dragging me down the stairs.
We flagged a cab and bolted to the hospital.
Outside the delivery room, I gripped her hand like a vice, my nails digging into her skin.
"Hang in there, Eloise," she babbled, her eyes wild. "Think about the baby girl. Think about the three of us, living large, living free, making that scumbag eat his heart out!"
Twelve agonizing hours crawled by.
It felt like dying and coming back again.
But then, through all the screaming and chaos, a loud, defiant cry pierced the air.
I collapsed back on the bed, tears mingling with sweat.
"Congratulations, it's a boy. Near 7 pounds. Healthy as can be," the nurse said, showing me a wrinkly red bundle of life.
His little face was all scrunched up, eyes shut tight. He looked like a tiny monkey.
And yet, to me, he was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
"A boy..." I murmured, exhausted but smiling.
That was fine too.
I heard a son took after his mother.
He wouldn't end up like that cold-hearted excuse of a father.
Laurel burst into the room, half-laughing, half-crying at the sight of him.
"My sweet nephew," she cooed. "Welcome to Earth, baby boy. You've got the coolest godmother in the universe."
She gently poked his chubby little cheek with the tip of her finger.
"So, what's his name? Got one picked out?"
I turned to the window.
Dawn was breaking.
A faint sliver of light was cutting through the clouds.
"Cristian Steele," I said softly.
My parasol tree. My rising sun.