Chapter 84
1136 Words
The morning sunlight spilled through the tall windows of the pack house, soft and golden, painting everything in a warm glow. I sat at the edge of the bed for a long time after Devon left for his meeting, my fingers resting lightly on my stomach. My thoughts wandered, as they always seemed to these days, to the small flicker of life growing inside me.
A child. Our child.
The thought still startled me sometimes. It terrified me too. What if I wasn’t ready? What if my body failed me again?
I swallowed hard, memories pressing against me. That awful moment when I discovered the truth that the life I had unknowingly carried with Kyle had been snuffed out before I ever had a chance to hope. Betrayal. Pain. A hollow emptiness that had left me wondering if I was broken.
I shook my head and pressed my palm firmer to my stomach. No. I wouldn’t let those memories destroy this moment. Not again. This child was not tied to the pain of my past. This child was tied to Devon, to us, to love.
I wanted to be ready.
That’s what pushed me to stand, smooth down my simple dress, and head for the daycare. I decided I wouldn’t cling to Devon today. If I was going to learn what it meant to be a mother, I had to step into it myself. Alone. Strong.
My heart pounded faster the closer I got. The sound of laughter drifted out before I even stepped through the doorway high, sweet giggles of children, the comforting hum of women chatting. When I pushed the door open, the scene unfolded before me like something out of a memory I never had.
Brightly colored rugs covered the wooden floors. Toys scattered across the room where small children played blocks, dolls, little carved wolves. Mothers sat together in clusters, some with babies in their laps, some knitting, others watching fondly as their children ran about.
And then… silence.
Every head turned toward me.
For a second, my stomach dropped. Old fears slammed into me like claws I imagined them frowning, whispering, Why is she here? She doesn’t belong. She doesn’t know how to be a mother.
But then it happened. A woman stood, smiling warmly. She had a round face, kind brown eyes, and a baby perched on her hip. “Luna,” she greeted, her voice steady, respectful. “What an honor. We didn’t expect you.”
My throat tightened, but I managed a smile. “I… I thought I should come. I want to learn. I don’t know much about children, but I want to be ready when the time comes.”
A second woman, sitting on a low cushion while braiding her daughter’s hair, patted the empty space beside her. “Then you’ve come to the right place. Sit, Luna. We’re happy to share what we know.”
Relief loosened my chest. I crossed the room, careful not to trip over a rolling wooden ball, and sat among them. My hands twisted in my lap, nervous until a small boy with messy curls and the brightest smile toddled up to me. He held out a block as if it were the most precious gift in the world.
“For you,” he said in a tiny, proud voice.
I laughed softly and took it. “Thank you, little one. It’s beautiful.”
He giggled and ran back to his toys.
The mothers began talking again, their words weaving around me. One spoke of the endless nights when her newborn wouldn’t stop crying. Another shared how her toddler had suddenly refused to eat anything except mashed carrots for weeks. Laughter followed, gentle and knowing.
I leaned forward eagerly. “What do you do when they won’t sleep?” I asked.
The woman with the baby chuckled. “You rock, you sing, you pray to the Moon Goddess. And sometimes you cry right along with them. But it passes, Luna. Everything does.”
Another leaned in. “Teething’s the worst. Nothing soothes them but biting everything including you.”
The whole group burst into laughter, and I found myself laughing too. It felt good. So good.
I asked questions about feeding, about walking, about the little things I never dared let myself dream of before. Their answers were patient, kind, never once condescending. They welcomed me as if I had always been one of them.
A mother with twins reached over and squeezed my hand. “You’ll be a wonderful mother, Luna. I can already see it. You have strength, but more importantly, you have heart. That’s what children remember.”
Her words sent heat rushing to my eyes. I blinked quickly, not wanting to cry in front of them, but the weight of her kindness filled a place inside me I hadn’t realized was still empty.
Soon, one of the toddlers tugged on my skirt. “Play with me, Luna,” she demanded, holding out her doll.
I smiled and knelt down, letting her place the doll in my hands. Together, we braided the doll’s hair while she told me quite seriously about the doll’s “wolf powers.” Her imagination made me laugh until my cheeks hurt.
Another little boy tripped near me, his knee scraping against the rug. Before I even thought, I scooped him into my arms, murmuring softly until his sobs turned into sniffles. His mother gave me a grateful look, and I felt something tug hard at my heart.
When one of the babies grew fussy, a mother asked if I wanted to hold him. Hesitation made me freeze, but I forced myself to nod. She placed him in my arms, small and warm, his head nestled against my chest.
I held my breath. He was so fragile, so perfect. My hands trembled, but the moment he sighed and relaxed into me, I felt it an overwhelming surge of love, of protection. My arms tightened gently around him.
I can do this, I thought fiercely. I will do this.
We spent hours together. I listened to their stories, their fears, their joys. I shared a little too, telling them I was nervous, that I had never truly been allowed to imagine this future. And they didn’t judge. They only encouraged, only reminded me that motherhood was never perfect, never easy but always worth it.
By the time I left, the sun had climbed higher, golden light spilling over the village. My spirit felt lighter, my chest no longer weighed down with fear.
As I walked back to the pack house, I touched my stomach and whispered softly, “We’ll be okay. I promise, little one. I’ll give you the world.”
And for the first time in a long, long time, I believed it.
- Writer
