“You wouldn’t understand,” she said, and then she hung up quickly, as if the words burned her tongue. Julian paced the kitchen afterward, agitation sparking off him like static.
“They’re hiding something. Something big.”
Let’s give them space.”
But I felt unsettled too, especially when Clark didn’t contact Julian at all that week. No follow-up, no explanation, nothing. Thanksgiving morning was unusually quiet.
Our apartment, normally full of clinking dishes and laughter when hosting family, felt empty. Even the sun filtering through the windows seemed duller. We roasted a small turkey, set the table for two, and tried to keep the mood festive.
But the absence of his parents hung over everything like a thick, silent fog. Then, around three in the afternoon, the doorbell rang. A deliveryman stood on our front step, holding a medium-sized box addressed to Julian.
Taped to the top was a note written in Maribel’s careful script:
We’re so sorry we couldn’t be there. Please open this together. Love, Mom & Dad.
Julian carried it carefully to the kitchen table. I grabbed my phone, half thinking maybe they had made us a handmade scrapbook or some emotional gesture we would cry over later. The box wasn’t heavy.
But the moment Julian opened it, something in the air shifted. Inside was a small cardboard container. The kind of pharmacies give you when you buy a pregnancy test.
He screamed.
Not a startled yelp. A raw, guttural sound that seemed pulled straight from his chest. He slammed the lid back on the box.
“We have to go. We have to go right now.”
I scrambled to my feet. “What?
What’s wrong? What’s in the box?”
He was already grabbing his keys, shaking. “I can’t— No.
You have to hear it from them. Let’s go.”
I followed. The five-hour drive to his parents’ house felt like a blur of headlights, icy silence, and my racing pulse. Julian didn’t speak once.
He just clenched the steering wheel, breathing hard, eyes fixed straight ahead. My mind spun wildly. Had someone died?
Was someone hurt? Were they in danger? Or did that test prove something impossible?
When we finally pulled into the driveway, the house looked the same warm lights glowing behind the curtains, Maribel’s potted mums lining the porch. But everything felt different. Julian didn’t even knock.
He pushed the door open and marched into the living room. Maribel and Clark were sitting on the couch, a bowl of popcorn between them, watching a holiday baking show. They jumped up at the sight of us.
“Julian? Honey? What—”
Julian held the box up like a piece of evidence.
“Explain this.”
He pulled out the pregnancy test still in its plastic casing. Maribel went pale. Clark’s jaw tightened.
For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Maribel stepped forward, her eyes filling with tears. “I was going to call you.
I swear.”
Julian’s voice cracked. “You thought sending this was better than talking to us in person?!”
She wiped her trembling hands on her blouse. “I didn’t know how to say it.”
“Say what?” I whispered, though dread was already pooling in my stomach.
Maribel’s breath shook. “I’m… pregnant.”
The world stood still. Not figuratively.
Literally. Everything, the ticking clock on the wall, the faint sound of the TV, even the thud of my own heartbeat seemed to freeze. Clark stepped beside her, his voice thick.
“It’s true. We didn’t think it was possible. I had a v.a.s.3.c.t.o.m.y years ago.”
He let out a shaky laugh.Continue reading…
