Carrying My Ex’s Secret

Our family moved into a cramped, two-bedroom apartment in the suburbs. Mom and Dad went from managing a large company to opening a tiny, boutique design studio.

It wasn't until I was much older that I understood. My father's company had gone bankrupt. We couldn't afford that life anymore.

The contents of the folder pointed to one culprit: Pierce's father, Harrison Montgomery. He was the one responsible for it all.

I couldn't imagine the look on my parents' faces if I ever brought Pierce home and introduced him as Harrison Montgomery's son.

I knew nothing about the cutthroat world of business, but the "evidence" in that folder was convincing. The Montgomery family was my family's enemy.

As I stood up from the sofa, a wave of dizziness hit me, and a dull ache pulsed in my lower abdomen. The shock, I figured. Then I checked the date and realized my period was due.

Pierce was still in Europe. I had no idea when he'd be back.

I packed my bags, called a car, and moved back home. I spent the next few weeks listlessly drifting through the days, waiting for graduation and trying to ignore my shattered heart.

I sent Pierce a text: "Let's break up. Don't look for me. Don't contact my friends. I can't do this anymore. Think of me as a coward, an asshole, whatever you want. I never want to see you again. Goodbye."

Then, without waiting for a reply, I blocked his number and all his social media accounts. Afterward, I dropped a bomb in my dorm's group chat: Pierce and I were over.

My graduation project was a success, but in the two weeks leading up to the defense, I barely ate or slept. I lost a frightening amount of weight.

Mom thought it was just project stress, constantly plying me with food and encouragement. Only I knew the real reason for my anxiety: my period was over a week late.

An icy dread washed over me. I drove to a pharmacy miles from my house and bought one of every brand of pregnancy test on the shelf.

Later, as I sat on the bathroom floor staring at a row of positive results, my entire world shattered.

How did I become this cliché? The girl who gets pregnant right after a breakup?

Still, I decided to face it head-on. That night, I told my parents I was pregnant. I'd asked my sister, Olivia, and her family to come over for moral support.

As they walked in, my three-year-old niece, Natalie, ran to me, patted my stomach, and chirped, "There's a little brother in here, Auntie Willow!"

I froze. So did my parents and Olivia. A child's intuition is a terrifying thing.

Olivia recovered first. "Willow... what is Nat talking about?"

All eyes fell on the line of pregnancy tests I'd laid out on the coffee table. The silence was deafening.

Dad was the first to speak. His lips trembled with rage as he snapped, "Where is the bastard? Does he know? Are you two getting married?"

"We broke up," I whispered. "The day I came home."

He turned pale, looking like he might collapse. It took a lot of desperate pleading, but in the end, they agreed to let me keep the child.

Because of the baby, I didn't pursue an internship. Instead, I followed in Olivia's footsteps and started working at our family's design company.

In the twenty years since the bankruptcy, my family had painstakingly clawed its way back from the brink. We'd moved from the suburbs to a nice place closer to the city. The studio had grown from a 500-square-foot room into a two-story office. With nearly ten designers, we were a respected boutique firm now, not just a small-time studio.

But accidents happen. Case in point: my water breaking prematurely at an awards dinner, sending me into labor far too early.