Page 45 of Halo

A woman's highest calling was to be a wife and mother—at least that's what church culture taught us. Be fruitful and multiply. However, saying that to someone with a chronic condition that can affect fertility is a bit of a slap in the face.

Sure, many women with endometriosis go on to have healthy, uncomplicated pregnancies. Unfortunately, with the amount of scar tissue I have in my abdomen along with the removal of one of my ovaries, for me, naturally conceiving would literally be a miracle.

That didn't stop my ex from trying.

When my brother and Rachel surprised our family with the baby news, I was nothing short of excited for them. I love them both fiercely, and my first niece or nephew will be the absolute apple of my eye.

Still, it hurt.

I'm not supposed to admit that. It's not like they did this to spite me. Heck, I'm not even in a spot to get pregnant right now even if I wanted to.

But still, it hurt.

Motherhood was always a someday for me. Someday I'd surprise my husband with the news. Someday we'd listen to our baby's heartbeat together. Someday we'd decorate a nursery together and laugh at our terrible paint job— it was okay because someday, someone would call me Mama.

Someday never came, but it did for someone else who never wanted it in the first place. Rachel has since changed her mind and is genuinely excited about the baby, and I couldn't be happier for her. But there are moments—small, selfish moments I'm not particularly proud of—when the whole thing feels painfully unfair.

The steady rumble of idling engines pulls me back to the present. The pickup line has shortened considerably, and with each departing vehicle, the crowd of students gathered along the sidewalk grows a little thinner.

“Foley! Hankin!” Chelsea hollers while motioning the cars to pull forward. “Are you working tonight?”

I smile. “I am. Are you going to pay me a visit?”

“One of these days, I will—especially if Mr. Wonderful shows up,” she jokes, punching her fist into her palm.

I groan. “Listen, Chels, I have to tell you something about—”

“Nick!” Chelsea shouts, waving at a large Chevy truck. She quickly walks over to it with an extra bounce in her step.

That truck. I know that black truck. Shielding my eyes from the sun, I peer into the cab—and my stomach nearly bottoms out.

Nick?

Nick Crawford?

How the heck does Chelsea know Nick?

“Nick's here!” Grady squeals, waving to his dad. He jumps up from the other students, grabbing my hand and pulling me along behind him. As I help him climb up into the back seat, he buckles himself up into a pink booster seat.

“You got it, partner?” Nick turns around.

Grady concentrates hard, slowly connecting his belt straps together. Metal finally clicks. He looks up pridefully, patting the safety harness.

“Good job.” Nick glances back at me, giving me a casual nod. “You doing alright?” he asks softly, a hint of mischief in his voice.

“Just fine. Thanks,” I say quietly, matching his tone.

He's a parent, Leah. Don't.

“Oh good! Julian found the booster seat,” Chelsea calls out from behind me. “It's a pretty easy install, plus the kids don't have to wrestle so much with the belts.”

He gives her a crooked smile. “It's perfect, Chels. I'll get it back to you as soon as—”

She waves her hand. “Oh please. Lizzie outgrew that thing a couple of years ago. I'm glad it's getting some use.”

Nick turns back to me, and good gracious, that dimple is such a menace. A man shouldn't be so beautiful. It's an unfair advantage.

“Sorry for the sudden change in dismissal plans, ladies. Grady's mom asked me … oh—” Nick glances at the clock on the dash—“about an hour ago if I could pick Grady up a few days a week … starting today.”