Page 76 of Three Months Yesterday

I turn back to the mirror. The girl staring back at me still doesn’t look quite like herself, but maybe that’s okay. Maybe she’s not supposed to anymore.

“I love you,” I whisper, stroking my stomach once more before moving to the closet to get dressed.

The conversation flows around me like water around a stone.

I’m sitting at my parents’ dinner table; the same table I’ve sat at for every Sunday dinner since I can remember. Mom’s at one end, Dad’s at the other. Aiden and Jackson are across from me, Jackson’s fork clattering against his plate as he tells some story about school that I’m not quite following. Wyatt’s on one side of me, Beckett on the other.

And I’m not paying attention to any of it.

I catch fragments. Something about Jackson’s teacher and a project that involved glue and what sounds like a truly alarming amount of glitter. Aiden’s voice, low and steady, asking follow-up questions about the assignment, a look of pure fear etched across his features. Jackson explains with the kind of earnest enthusiasm only a four-year-old can muster, his hands waving as he talks. Mom tells him to use his indoor voice, which he ignores completely.

Wyatt leans past me to reach for the rolls, and I catch the tail end of whatever he and Beckett have been talking about. Something about the property line at his land in the woods and whether he should put up a fence before spring. Wyatt has an opinion about it. Beckett doesn’t. Neither of them are wrong, but Wyatt isn’t willing to back down, which means this particular conversation has probably been going on for the last ten minutes.

I note, distantly, that I’m grateful for how my parents have started treating Beckett. Like the novelty of having The Beckett Stone at their table has worn off and he’s just like any other person. No special treatment. No interrogating questions. No hovering. He’s been folded into the family dinners the way Sadie was when she first started coming around. I don’t know exactly when that happened, but I’m glad it did.

Dad passes the rolls to Wyatt without being asked. Mom tops off Beckett’s water glass the way she does when she’s decided someone belongs. There’s no fanfare to it, no moment where someone announces Beckett was welcome here. It happened the way things always happen in this family, slowly and then all at once, until one day you look up and realize the extra chair at the table isn’t extra anymore.

The conversations overlap, not everyone being part of one big conversation. Multiple threads run at the same time, weaving in and out of each other, just like it always has. Wyatt and Beckett have started talking about how Wyatt got to see Ryan last week, and Aiden and Dad have moved on. Dad asks about a headline he saw of a body found in a neighboring town and Aiden tells him now isn’t the time to talk about it. Mom is fussing over Jackson’s plate, making sure he eats something green before he goes back for more.

It’s easy and warm. Everything I love about this table, and I don’t want to shatter it.

The lull comes without warning. The conversations thin out one by one, like spools running out of thread. Jackson’s story winds down, the update on Ryan reaches its end, and even the clatter of forks and knives seems to quiet until there’s a beat of silence that settles over the table like a held breath.

Wyatt wipes his mouth, his eyes catching mine. “Hey, Mads. Everything all right? You’ve been pretty quiet this evening.”

My gaze travels around the table. Everyone is here. Mom. Dad. Wyatt. Everyone I love and still need to tell about the pregnancy is here in one room.

My eyes land on Aiden. He’s already watching me, his expression careful, controlled. He gives me the smallest nod. Like he’s silently telling me Go ahead. You’ve got this.

I feel Beckett’s hand on my leg—warm and steady. The same quiet comfort he always offers, the kind that doesn’t need words. His thumb moves once against my knee, a small, grounding pressure that says he’s right there.

“Madison?” Dad’s voice is gentle, worry furrowing his brow. “Is everything okay, pumpkin?”

My voice comes out steadier than I expect. “I’m fine. I just…I have some news. Something I found out after the accident.”

The table goes still and Jackson looks up from his plate, sensing the shift in the air even if he doesn’t understand it.

I swallow, my eyes moving over the people I’m talking to most, and I find myself keeping my eyes trained on my mother. I don’t know why, but she’s the reaction I care about most right now.

“I’m pregnant.”

Mom gasps. Her hand flies to her mouth and her eyes dart to Beckett. There’s something hopeful in her expressions, something that makes my stomach drop because I know what she’s thinking. She’s thinking Beckett and I have gotten quite close, that after the accident he’s become more attentive, more protective.

“It’s Mark’s,” I say, before she can voice her thoughts.

The hope on her face flickers and fades, something like pity taking its place.

“I didn’t find out until I was already eighteen weeks pregnant,” I continue, my voice cracking slightly. “I didn’t…I didn’t know. I had no idea.”

The silence that follows is the loudest thing I’ve ever heard.

Mom looks at Dad, her eyes filling with tears, and I watch as a few spill over, tracking down her cheeks. She presses her hand harder against her mouth like she’s trying to hold something in, and then she’s pushing back from the table and rushing out of the room.

My eyes shift to my dad but he doesn’t move for a long moment, his gaze stuck on the spot Mom used to be. When he finally looks at me, there’s something on his face I can’t define. It’s not anger or disappointment. It’s much heavier, something that sits in the space between his eyes and the set of his jaw, and I don’t know what to call it. He opens his mouth like he’s going to speak then closes it.

He stands quietly. “I’m going to go check on your mother,” he says, leaving before anyone can respond.

I stare at the empty spot he left behind. Beckett’s hand tightens on my leg, a reminder he’s there. I feel his thumb trace a slow circle against my knee, and I know he’s offering me that quiet comfort I’ve grown accustomed to. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move. He just holds me there, steady and solid, and I’m grateful for it in a way I don’t have words for.