"Antonella."
She stops talking.
Looks up at me.
"Come here."
She doesn't move.
"I said come here."
Slowly, she crosses the small bathroom. Stops in front of my wheelchair.
She was terrified.
Not of the pregnancy.
Of my reaction.
She stood in this bathroom, holding proof that she's carrying my child, and her first thought was that I might reject her. Push her away. See her as a problem to be solved rather than a gift to be treasured.
What kind of monster does she think I am?
What kind of monster am I?
"I'm an asshole," I say.
She looks up.
"Yes," she agrees. "You are."
"I've been cruel to you."
"Sometimes."
"I've given you every reason to think I would react badly to this."
She nods.
I reach out.
Take her hand.
Pull her closer until she's standing between my knees, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at her face.
"I'm not angry," I say. "I'm not going to push you away. I'm not going to see this as a trap or a burden or anything other than what it is."
"What is it?"
The question hangs in the air.
I think about the answer.
Really think about it.
What is this?
A baby.