Scented Claudia

Months passed the way a tide goes out.

Slow at first.

Subtle.

And then one day you realize the shoreline has changed completely.

I was huge now.

There was no polite way to say it.

My belly had rounded out until i could barely see my own feet.

At first it had been exciting.

The little flutter.

The first unmistakable kick.

The moment i laid my hand on my stomach and felt movement, felt life.

I cried so hard that night i thought i'd make myself sick.

Because i wanted him there.

More than anything.

But as the months wore on, the glow everyone talked about never came.

There was no soft, radiant mother-to-be in the mirror.

There was just me.

Pale.

Tired.

Dark circles under my eyes from nights spent worrying.

I tried to hide it at work.

Tried to focus on the new product lines, the export requirements, the endless meetings.

But i couldn't exactly hide this.

I'd walk into the factory and the workers would scramble to find me a chair.

My business partner, Mr. Liu, kept clicking his tongue at me.

"Boss, you should stay home."

"I'm fine," I'd snap, even when i wasn't.

Even when i had to stop mid-sentence to rub my lower back, panting through the ache.

Because if i didn't work, i'd think.

And i was so, so tired of thinking.

-

I'd rented a small apartment in a newer building.

Not too fancy, but clean.

Safe.

There was a little balcony that overlooked the city.

At night i'd stand there, one hand pressed to my belly, and watch the lights blink and fade in the distance.

I'd whisper things no one could hear.

"You're almost here."

"You're not alone."

"Mommy's trying."

Sometimes i'd whisper his name too.

Softly.

Like a prayer.

Raphael.

But i never let myself say it more than once.

I hadn't spoken to anyone back home.

Not my parents.

Not old friends.

I knew they'd been calling.

My Chinese number had at least a dozen voicemails in Filipino-accented English.

My mother's voice, tight and frantic.

"Claudia, anak, please—just tell us you're safe."

My father, quieter, but no less worried.

"We love you. Come home."

I deleted them all without listening to the end.

Because i couldn't afford to crack.

I'd made this choice.

I had to see it through.

-

My doctor here was kind but brisk.

She didn't coddle me.

I appreciated that.

She'd press cold gel to my round belly, moving the ultrasound wand with practiced efficiency.

"Healthy," she'd announce.

"Strong heartbeat."

And for a moment i could breathe.

Until the next appointment.

Until the next worry settled in my chest like a stone.

Shopping for baby things alone was its own quiet torture.

I wandered aisles of soft blankets and tiny socks.

Rows of bottles and rattles.

Sometimes i'd pick something up a pacifier in pale green.

A knit cap with bear ears.

And i'd picture him next to me.

He'd make some stupid joke about buying the whole store.

He'd pick the most practical items and then, secretly, the most ridiculous plush toy he could find.

He'd hold it up to my belly and say, "What do you think, baby? This one?"

I had to bite my tongue so hard it bled just to keep from sobbing in the middle of the store.

I bought only what i needed.

One crib.

A few sets of clothes.

Diapers.

Formula, just in case.

No extras.

No frills.

Because i couldn't afford sentiment.

Not when it hurt this much.

-

Work slowed down as i got heavier.

No one said it outright, but they watched me with worried eyes.

I'd feel a ripple of hush go through the floor when i waddled in.

Some of the older women would fuss at me in Mandarin i only half-understood.

But their meaning was clear.

You shouldn't be here.

I'd wave them off.

"Just a few more weeks," I'd mutter.

But i knew they were right.

My ankles swelled.

My back screamed.

I couldn't bend over without cursing under my breath.

Even the baby seemed to protest, squirming and kicking harder with each passing day.

Nights were the worst.

That was when the apartment was quiet.

When i couldn't drown out the ache in my chest with work or orders or schedules.

I'd lie on my side, a pillow wedged between my knees, one arm protectively cradling my stomach.

And I'd talk.

Because who else was there to listen?

"You're so active tonight," I'd whisper.

"I hope you're comfortable in there."

I'd smooth my palm over the tight curve of my belly.

"Your dad... he would have read to you every night. He would have sung to you, off-key."

I'd laugh, then choke on it.

My eyes would sting.

"He would have been such a good father."

There was one night about eight months in—where it all crashed down on me.

The baby had hiccups or something.

Little rhythmic jumps inside me that wouldn't stop.

I was so tired.

So sore.

I sat on the edge of my bed and just started sobbing.

Ugly, heaving sobs that made me gag.

I couldn't catch my breath.

I pressed both hands to my belly, rocking back and forth.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

"I'm so sorry."

I wasn't sure if i was apologizing to the baby or to Raphael.

Or maybe to both.

Because this wasn't the plan.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

We were supposed to be together.

We were supposed to fight about names, and nursery colors.

He was supposed to hold my hand during appointments.

Kiss my forehead in the delivery room.

Cry when he heard the first cry.

Instead it was me.

Alone.

Holding it together with tape and hope.