The father of my child

Chapter 1 “Hey, wake up it's time to go to the gym. We're gonna be late,” a voice says, but my mind is foggy with sleep to make out to whom the voice belonged to. The bed dips, the blankets keeping me warm slipping from my body. Then a hand shakes me. I want to slap it away but I'm too sleepy and don't have the energy to do so. “I'm not going to the gym today,” I say sleepily, my eyes still closed. It's not that I don't want to wake up, it's just that I can't. Even with my eyes closed, everything seems to be spinning. My head is throbbing, the headache making my head feel heavy. Even the thought of opening my eyes, subjecting them to the morning sunlight, makes my headache throb even more. My body feels like it's nailed to this bed, like there's a huge person on of me. It's like I can't move. The bed dips again, and I hear footsteps walking away and then the door slams shut. I wince at the sound. I bury my face in my pillow, groaning. After a few seconds, I slowly open my eyes. Or at least I try to, because the second I open my eyes the morning sunlight is so piercingly and blindingly bright that I close them again. I open them again, this time bracing myself for the bright light. I manage to lift my head and then my body, sitting upright on the bed. I take the glass of water placed on my bedside table and take a sip because my throat feels dry for some reason. As I'm drinking the water, I feel something coming up my throat, wanting to escape through my mouth. Quickly placing the glass of water on the bedside table and almost knocking it to the floor, I run to the bathroom with my hand pressed against my mouth. The next thing I know, I'm throwing up, heaving and coughing. I've never felt this sick before. After puking my guts out, I stumble to my feet, feeling faint. I flush the toilet and grab the edges of the sink to keep from falling because of how weak my legs are. After a couple of seconds, sure that I won't faint, I wash my face and rinse my mouth. If I could I would stay in my bathroom forever because something tells me that my mom is waiting for me in front of the door to ask what is wrong with me. But I know that there's no way I'm going to stay here all day to avoid her, so I open the door and, yeah, as expected, my mom is waiting for me, a cup of coffee in her hand, looking at me with a mixture of worry and suspicion. “Are you okay?” she asks. I nod, even though the movement is not good for my throbbing headache. I try not to wince as I say, “Yeah, I'm okay, Mom. Maybe it's something I ate.” Are you sure, honey. You don’t seem okay,” Mom says, rubbing her hand up and down my back. I lean into the soothing touch. I nod. “Yeah,” I answer her, my voice hoarse. “I just need to lie down, that’s all. I’m just having a strong reaction to something I ate.” She seems hesitant but she says, “Okay, my love, you should get rest. I’ll call you when it’s time for breakfast.” After rinsing my mouth and getting rid of the acidic taste, I drag myself to my room, feeling weak all of a sudden. In my room, I close the door and walk to my bed. I lie on my back with my hands at the back of my head, staring at the ceiling. My mind is a mess and I’m feeling all these emotions. I rarely get sick, and the way I’ve been feeling lately is strange. I wonder what it could be. But I know what it is, but it’s like I’m in denial, like I’m refusing to see what is right in front of me. I pull out my phone from under my pillow, going straight to Google. In the search bar, I type in, reasons for vomiting in the morning. Almost all the results are saying the same thing: pregnancy. It doesn’t come as a surprise to me. I knew what the search results were going to be but I needed to be sure. As I’m scrolling through my phone, clicking on link after link, I hear a knock on my door. I quickly exit Google just as Mom pokes her head inside my room. “Breakfast is ready, Sandy,” she says. Already? How long was I on my phone, reading all these articles and blog posts? “Okay, Mom, I’m coming.” I get out of bed and make my way to the kitchen to have breakfast. My uncle and aunt are already seated at the kitchen table, eating their breakfast. “Good morning, everyone,” I say. They are looking at me like they know something I don’t know. With my head hung low, I take a seat. “Morning, Sandy. How are you feeling now? Any better?” My uncle asks worriedly. Mom must have told them about me puking this morning. I clear my throat. “I’m okay, uncle, I just needed to sleep it off,” I say. Mom made my favorite for breakfast: oatmeal. And she put in butter, milk, and cinnamon—just the way I like it. “I made your favorite, honey,” she says, pressing a kiss on the top of my head. “Maybe this will make you feel better.” She places a bowl of oatmeal on the table. “Thanks, mom,” I reply, bringing a spoon of oatmeal to my mouth. But before I can close my mouth around the spoon, a strange, off smell fills my nostrils. Wrinkling my nose, I put the spoon down, my appetite gone. I look around to see if someone saw my reaction, but no one is looking my way; everyone is minding their business, eating their breakfast. With a frown, I take the spoon again, discreetly bringing it to my nose to smell it. The strange smell, I realize, is coming from the cereal. That’s weird. I look at everyone again, but no one is saying anything about the oatmeal smelling bad. It smells so bad, as If a rat died in it. Not wanting anyone to be suspicious of me, I force myself to eat the oatmeal, trying to suppress the urge to gag. I chew on it slowly, a hand pressed against my mouth. But I can’t swallow it. I stand up abruptly and everyone stares at me, shocked and confused. But I don’t have time to explain myself because I’m already running to the bathroom to spit it out. I end up doing more than that. I throw up again and again, until there’s nothing coming out. I wipe my mouth, tears falling down my cheeks.