The brown packing tape split with a high, plastic shriek that made the baby kick against my ribs.
On the floor by the radiator, the cardboard box of kitchen towels had already begun to sag from the humidity of late spring.
Sarah handed me another flat box, her fingers gray with newsprint.
She tapped her pen against her yellow legal pad before setting both on the windowsill.
“We need to get the heavy things out of here before your third trimester,” Sarah said.
I reached for a roll of bubble wrap, but a sudden, sharp pain seized my lower abdomen, tight and hot.
I sat down hard on the edge of the taped box, clutching a twelve-dollar green knit baby blanket to my stomach.
“Rachel,” Sarah said, dropping to her knees.
I twisted the silver band on my right index finger, waiting for the cramp to pass.
My voice was flat and even. “I am fine. It is just a spasm.”
“You are pale,” Sarah said, taking the tape gun from my hand.
“And you are not packing another box today.”
The pain subsided into a dull ache, but the unease remained, settling deep in my lower back.
By two o’clock, the heat had driven us to Sarah’s kitchen, where the smell of mint tea did nothing to cool the air.
Sarah poured two mugs, her eyes tracking the way I kept my hand flat over my stomach.
“He has blocked my number,” I said, staring at the steam rising from my mug.
“Every call goes straight to a generic voicemail.”
“I tried his office line yesterday, and his receptionist told me he was in a permanent meeting.”
Sarah set the kettle down with a sharp clink.
“He cannot simply disappear because he changed his mind about a marriage,” she said.
“I can handle the expenses myself,” I said, adjusting my posture against the hard wooden chair.
“My copywriting contracts will cover the rent here.”
Sarah looked at me, her mouth a tight, straight line.
“A crib costs four hundred dollars, Rachel. Pediatricians do not take copy edits as payment.”
“I have enough,” I said.
