LAVENDER’S POV
Morning sickness is a liar. It doesn’t come only in the morning. It comes when I bend to tie my shoes. When I smell frying onions from the neighbour’s window. When I laugh too hard at something Aunt Tracy says and my body decides joy is suspicious and must be punished.
It comes like a reminder. You are not alone in this body anymore. I wake up curled on my side, one hand pressed flat against my stomach, the other gripping the thin sheet as another wave of nausea rolls through me. The room is small but clean, sunlight leaking through pale curtains, dust motes floating lazily as if the world has no idea how violently my insides are rebelling.
I swallow hard, breathe, aunt Tracy taught me that, breathe through it, don’t fight it. Fighting only makes it worse. The bathroom is
