I sit at the kitchen table. The bottle of prenatal vitamins sits in front of me. The little white pills seem so innocent, but my eyes can’t help but trace their outline, over and over again. I don’t know why, but I can’t bring myself to open the bottle. It’s like doing so would make it real, and I’m not ready for that.
I glance at the card beside it, the one the doctor gave me. Follow-up appointment. The time, the date—everything is laid out for me in neat, orderly numbers, but inside, nothing feels neat or orderly. I want to run away from it, as though I can somehow escape this. But I know I can’t.
This is real. And I don’t know what to do.
What happens now? What am I supposed to do?
The feeling of panic rises like a wave, threatening to drown me. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second,
