Cradle of Lies

The Plan

Dorothy sat on the bathroom floor, her laptop balanced on her knees, scrolling through forums about faking pregnancy tests. The tile was cold against her legs, but she’d locked herself in here twenty minutes ago when she heard Jake’s key in the door downstairs. She needed to think. Needed to plan.

He’d come back, just like he’d promised. She’d heard him moving around the apartment, the rustle of him unpacking his duffel bag, putting his clothes back in the dresser. The sound of hangers sliding in the closet. He was staying. Actually staying.

And now she had to figure out how to keep him.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Jake: You okay in there?

Yeah, just not feeling great. Morning sickness maybe?

Even the lies were getting easier.

Want me to get you anything?

No, I’m fine. Be out in a minute.

Dorothy closed the forum and opened a new tab. She’d been researching for an hour now, and the reality of what she’d done was starting to crystallize into something approaching a plan.

Option one: Get actually pregnant. Stop taking her birth control, track her cycle, make sure she and Jake had s*x during her fertile window. It could work. Women got pregnant by accident all the time—surely she could make it happen on purpose.

But that could take months. Six months, a year, maybe never. And she’d already told him she was five or six weeks along. By the time she actually got pregnant, the timeline wouldn’t match.

Option two: Fake a miscarriage. String him along for a few weeks, maybe a month, then tell him she’d lost the baby. They’d grieve together. He’d comfort her. Maybe the shared tragedy would bring them closer, make him forget why he’d wanted to leave in the first place.

But then what? They’d be right back where they started, except now with the ghost of a fake baby between them.

Option three: Maintain the lie. All nine months of it. And somehow, at the end, produce an actual baby.

Dorothy stared at the screen, her mind racing through the logistics. She worked in labor and delivery. She saw pregnant women every day, heard them talk about their symptoms, their cravings, their aches and pains. She knew what pregnancy looked like from the outside.

And she had access to things most people didn’t.

Her fingers moved across the keyboard almost without conscious thought: blank ultrasound images

Dozens of results popped up. Stock photos. Templates. Images other people had used for gender reveal parties or announcements or—she didn’t let herself think about what else people might use them for.

She could download one. Fill in fake information. Print it at work on the fancy photo printer in the nurse’s station. It wouldn’t hold up under real scrutiny, but Jake wouldn’t scrutinize. Why would he? He trusted her.

Or he had trusted her, before she’d given him reasons not to.

Dorothy clicked on one of the images. A grainy black and white ultrasound, the kind from early pregnancy when the baby was barely more than a blob. She could put her name on it. A fake date. Make up measurements that matched what five or six weeks should look like.

Her stomach churned. This was crazy. This was fraud. This was—

You still in there? Another text from Jake.

Coming now.

She closed the laptop and stood up, catching her reflection in the mirror. She looked pale. Guilty. Like someone who’d just spent an hour researching how to maintain an elaborate lie.

She splashed cold water on her face and practiced her expression. Tired. Overwhelmed. Early pregnancy exhaustion. That’s what Jake would expect to see.

When she opened the bathroom door, Jake was sitting on the edge of their bed, his phone in his hands. He looked up when she appeared, his expression cautious. Hopeful.

“Hey,” he said softly. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just queasy.” Dorothy moved to the bed and sat down next to him, careful to leave some space between them. “It comes and goes.”

“My sister said ginger helped her. And crackers. Saltines, I think.” He was trying so hard. Trying to be supportive, to be the partner she needed. “I can run to the store if you want.”

“Maybe later.” Dorothy folded her hands in her lap. “Did you talk to Marcus?”

“Yeah. Told him I wasn’t coming tonight. That something came up.” Jake set his phone aside. “He was confused. I didn’t—I didn’t tell him about the baby yet. I thought maybe we should wait until after the doctor confirms everything.”

“That’s probably smart.”

“Dot.” Jake turned to face her fully. “We need to talk about this. Really talk about it.”

Dorothy’s chest tightened. “Okay.”

“I’m not going to lie—I’m scared. This wasn’t part of the plan. We weren’t even in a good place before you told me, and now…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“Neither do I.”

“But I’m not going to run.” His voice was firm. “I’m not going to be like my dad, walking out when things get hard. If we’re having a baby, I’m here. I’m all in.”

The guilt was a physical weight in Dorothy’s chest. “Jake—”

“But the other stuff has to change.” He looked at her directly, his eyes serious. “The checking my phone, the jealousy, all of it. We have to figure out how to trust each other, or this isn’t going to work. Baby or no baby.”

“I know. I’ll do better.”

“It’s not just about doing better.” Jake ran his hand through his hair. “It’s about actually changing. Getting help. You said you’d go to therapy—are you actually going to do it this time?”

“Yes.” At least that wasn’t a lie. She probably should go to therapy. Especially now. “I’ll find someone next week. Make an appointment.”

“And I’ll come with you if you want. To couples counseling, I mean. We can work on this together.”

Together. He kept saying that word, like they were a team. Like they were going to get through this as partners.

If only he knew.

“I’d like that,” Dorothy said quietly.

Jake reached for her hand, and she let him take it. His thumb brushed across her knuckles, that familiar gesture that used to make her feel safe. Now it just made her feel like a fraud.

“We’re going to be parents,” he said, almost like he was testing the words out. “That’s insane.”

“Yeah.”

“My mom is going to freak out. In a good way, probably. She’s been asking about grandkids since we moved in together.” He smiled slightly. “Your mom too, I bet.”

Dorothy’s mother. She hadn’t even thought about her mother. About how she’d have to tell her, maintain the lie with her too. About how her mother would want to be involved, would ask questions, would expect updates and ultrasound photos and—

“Dot? You okay? You look pale.”

“Just tired.” Dorothy squeezed his hand. “It’s been a long day.”

“Yeah.” Jake glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Almost nine. “You should sleep. Growing a human is probably exhausting.”

Growing a human. If only.

“What about you?”

“I’m wired. I don’t think I could sleep if I tried.” He stood up, still holding her hand. “But you rest. I’ll be in the living room if you need anything.”

Dorothy nodded and watched him leave, pulling the bedroom door partially closed behind him. She waited until she heard the TV turn on—some late game, the announcers’ voices a low murmur through the wall—before she pulled out her phone again.

She had to be smart about this. Careful. She couldn’t just download a fake ultrasound and hope for the best. She needed to actually understand what she was faking.

She opened a new private browser and started searching: early pregnancy ultrasound what to expect, 5 week ultrasound measurements, first prenatal appointment what happens.

By Monday, she needed to sound like she’d actually been to a doctor. She needed to know what questions they’d ask, what tests they’d run, what a real prenatal appointment looked like from the patient’s perspective—not the nurse’s.

And she needed to figure out how to get her hands on actual ultrasound images. Not stock photos from the internet, but real ones from St. Catherine’s system. Images that would have the right format, the right headers, the right technical details that would make them believable.

She worked at the hospital. She had access to the imaging system. It wouldn’t be hard to pull up old ultrasounds from other patients, ones that matched the gestational age she was claiming. She could take screenshots, edit them, add her own information.

It was illegal, probably. Definitely unethical. A violation of patient privacy and about a dozen hospital policies.

But it was doable.

Dorothy’s finger hovered over her phone screen. She should stop this right now. Should go into the living room and tell Jake the truth. That she’d panicked, that she’d lied, that she wasn’t actually pregnant and she was so, so sorry.

From the living room, she heard Jake laugh at something on TV. A genuine sound, lighter than she’d heard from him in weeks.

He was happy. The lie had made him happy.

Dorothy closed her eyes and made her decision.

Monday morning, she’d go to work early. Before her shift started, she’d access the imaging system and find what she needed. She’d be careful. She’d cover her tracks. And she’d have proof of a pregnancy that didn’t exist.

And then she’d have nine months to figure out what came next