Chapter 25 The Weight of It
1071 Words
By the start of her third trimester, Lily understood something no one had prepared her for.
Pregnancy wasn’t just glowing skin and soft nursery colors.
It was weight.
Real, physical weight that pressed into her hips when she stood too long. That settled into her lower back like a dull ache that never fully left. That made simple things—like tying her shoes or rolling over in bed—feel like small battles.
She didn’t complain much.
Not out loud.
But some mornings, she sat on the edge of her bed and just breathed through it before standing up.
Her body didn’t feel like her own anymore.
It felt borrowed.
Stretched.
Claimed.
Emma moved constantly now. Stronger kicks. Sharp turns. Sudden pressure against her ribs that made her gasp.
“Okay,” she muttered one afternoon in the kitchen as a particularly aggressive kick caught her off guard. “We get it. You’re strong.”
Her mom glanced over from the sink, smiling softly. “That one hurt?”
“Not hurt. Just… surprised me.”
The truth was, it did hurt a little.
Everything did a little.
Sleeping was the worst.
No position felt right anymore. On her back was uncomfortable. On her right side made her hips throb. On her left side was the “recommended” position, but even that left her shifting every twenty minutes.
Some nights, she lay awake staring at the ceiling, one hand cradling the underside of her stomach, whispering to Emma like she could negotiate with her.
“Please let mommy sleep.”
Emma usually responded with a kick.
Lily would laugh softly despite the exhaustion.
But the laughter didn’t erase the loneliness.
There was no one beside her in bed to shift closer when she winced. No one to rub slow circles into her lower back. No one to say, “You’re doing amazing.”
She told herself she didn’t need that.
But sometimes, at three in the morning, she wanted it desperately.
One particularly hard day started before the sun even rose.
She’d barely slept. Her legs cramped twice during the night, and heartburn burned its way up her throat no matter how many pillows she propped behind her.
When her alarm went off for her morning class, she stared at the ceiling and felt tears prick her eyes.
“I can’t do this today,” she whispered.
But she did.
Because she had to.
She moved slowly, carefully easing herself upright. The pressure in her pelvis made her pause halfway to standing. She gripped the dresser and breathed through it.
“You’re okay,” she murmured. “You’re okay.”
By the time she made it to campus, her back was already throbbing.
Walking across the parking lot felt longer than usual. Students passed her, laughing, backpacks slung carelessly over their shoulders. They looked her age.
But she didn’t feel eighteen anymore.
She felt older.
Heavier in more ways than one.
Halfway through class, Emma began a series of relentless kicks against her ribs. Lily shifted in her seat, trying not to draw attention to herself. Her professor’s voice blurred in and out as discomfort spread across her abdomen.
A sharp tightening suddenly wrapped around her stomach.
She froze.
It wasn’t like the kicks.
It was deeper. Firmer. Like her muscles were clenching involuntarily.
Her breath hitched.
Another tightening followed, not painful exactly—but intense.
Her fingers dug into the edge of the desk.
Too early, she thought wildly.
She counted silently.
The sensation eased after about thirty seconds.
Her heart raced.
Was that a contraction?
Panic flickered in her chest.
She stayed seated until class ended, pretending everything was fine. But by the time she reached her car, her hands were shaking.
She called her doctor from the driver’s seat.
“Braxton Hicks,” the nurse assured her after listening carefully. “False contractions. They can happen this far along, especially if you’re dehydrated or stressed. Rest. Drink water. If they become regular or painful, call us immediately.”
Lily nodded even though the nurse couldn’t see her.
False contractions.
Practice.
Her body rehearsing for something that still felt impossibly big.
When she got home, exhaustion finally caught up to her.
She sank onto the couch and let the tears fall.
Not because she was in danger.
Not because something was wrong.
But because it was hard.
So much harder than she let herself admit.
Her mom came home to find her there, eyes red, one hand protectively wrapped around her stomach.
“Talk to me,” her mother said softly.
“I had contractions. Not real ones. Just practice. But it scared me.”
Her mom sat beside her and brushed hair away from her face. “Your body’s preparing. That’s all.”
“I’m so tired,” Lily whispered. “I feel like I’m failing at everything. School. Sleeping. Being strong.”
Her mother cupped her face gently.
“You are growing a human being,” she said firmly. “There is nothing weak about that.”
Lily’s breath trembled.
Emma shifted again, slower this time.
Lily closed her eyes and focused on that movement.
She wasn’t failing.
She was carrying.
She was enduring.
She was changing.
Later that night, she wrote to Ethan.
She told him about the Braxton Hicks contractions. About how they scared her for a moment. About how Emma’s kicks were getting stronger.
She didn’t dramatize it.
But she didn’t hide the exhaustion either.
Some days I feel powerful, she wrote.
And some days I feel like I’m barely standing.
She hesitated before adding the last line.
I wish you were here when it gets hard.
She didn’t write it to guilt him.
She wrote it because it was true.
After sealing the letter, she stood in front of the mirror again.
Her stomach was round and undeniable now. Stretch marks faintly traced along her skin, pink and new.
She ran her fingers over them gently.
“They’re not flaws,” she whispered to herself. “They’re proof.”
Emma kicked once, slow and steady.
Lily smiled through tired eyes.
The weight was heavy.
But it wasn’t empty.
And even on the hardest days—when her back ached, when sleep wouldn’t come, when fear tried to creep in—
She would carry it.
For her daughter.
For the life growing inside her.
For the version of herself she was becoming.
- Writer
