I'm Pregnant

“Hey Omari, are you in?”

Bob was picking teams for kickball at the annual work picnic.

“Nah, I’m gonna sit this one out.”

I stepped under the pavilion and made my way to the folding picnic tables, dodging the small talk around me—weekend plans, the Jets, project updates. All I could think about was running. Running through the woods in my mind, away from this corporate matrix.

That’s when my phone rang. It was Juliana.

“Hey, what’s up?” I answered.

“I’m pregnant.”

The distant shouts from the kickball game, the hum of laughter in the background—everything around me seemed to fade out. My mind blanked. Growing up without a father, I was determined not to repeat that cycle. But before I could fully process the news, Juliana’s voice broke through again, shaky and exhausted.

“And they just demoted me. They’re giving me twice the work, cutting my hours... and I’m sick to my stomach.”

“Alright,” I said, already grabbing my keys. “I’m coming to get you.”

I rushed to her job, feeling like Zorro, ready to save the day. The last thing I wanted was for my future child’s mother to be slaving for a company that didn’t respect her.

In the short time we’d been together, she had sparked something in me that I didn’t even know was there. Creatively, emotionally—she’d lit a fire that wouldn’t stop burning. I was already an artist, but with her, I felt like I was unlocking new levels. She made me believe, and I wanted her to have that same creative freedom I craved for myself.

When she got in the car, I could see the exhaustion on her face.

“Are you happy?” she asked.

“Of course I’m happy,” I said. But I knew that wasn’t what she was really asking. She wanted to know if I could handle it. If we could handle it.

That night, we sat on the couch with the laptop open, drafting her resignation. It felt strange, almost too easy, typing up a few words that would change everything. As I hovered over the "send" button, her voice broke the silence.

“What about my health insurance?”

I paused. Her job had covered everything, and now, with a baby on the way, we were losing that safety net.

“We’ll figure it out,” I said, trying to sound confident.

“What are you gonna do?” was my mom’s immediate response when I told her. We’d spent my whole life trying to avoid a baby out of wedlock, and now here I was, facing the exact thing she had always warned me about. I could hear the weight of tradition and expectation in her voice—the concern about what others might think, the pressure to do things "the right way." But beneath that, there was a deeper worry: Would I be able to handle this? Could I truly step up and be the man she hoped I’d become?

For a moment, I felt like a kid again, standing in front of her with my mistakes laid bare. But I wasn’t a kid anymore. This wasn’t just about avoiding judgment or following a set of rules—it was about creating a future, taking responsibility, and building a family.

We got married in our apartment, just us and our parents. It wasn’t the big celebration we had imagined, but it was simple, intimate. A quiet acknowledgment of the new chapter we were stepping into together.

The weeks after the wedding felt like we were building something—something fragile but full of hope. Every little sign from Juliana’s body felt like a step closer to this future we were creating.

When I broke the news at work, it felt like I was finally being accepted into the fraternity of responsibility.

Ray called me into his office. He stood up from behind his desk as I walked in and gave me a nod.

“Congrats, Omari. Big news.”

“Thanks,” I said, not quite sure how this was going to go.

Ray gestured for me to sit. “I remember when I found out I was going to be a father. Changes everything, doesn’t it?” He smiled, but there was something more serious behind it. “Look, I know this is going to be a new chapter for you, and it’s going to take some adjusting. If you need to shift things around or take time for appointments, just let us know. We’ll work with you.”

“I appreciate that,” I said, genuinely grateful for the understanding.

Ray leaned forward slightly, his tone shifting from sympathetic to serious. “But I also want you to think about where you’re headed here. We’ve got some big projects coming up, and I want to see you take a bigger role in them. Now’s the time to show some real initiative.”

It wasn’t just an offer of support—it was an unspoken expectation.

“Yeah,” I said, “I understand.”

Ray smiled again, the conversation shifting back to something lighter. “Good. Let’s make it happen.”

Soon, the day of the ultrasound arrived. It felt like the moment we had been waiting for—a sign that everything was moving forward. Up until now, there had been so much uncertainty: Juliana’s job, the wedding, the health insurance, my responsibilities at work. But this was supposed to be the moment that would make it all feel real, tangible. A glimpse into the life we were creating together.

When they called us in, we made our way to the room, where the technician spread the gel across Juliana’s belly. The screen flickered to life, and I leaned in, focused on the monitor. The grainy black-and-white images appeared, and soon enough, there it was—the heartbeat. I exhaled, the tension I didn’t even realize I’d been holding starting to ease. We exchanged a glance, a silent celebration. We saw the tiny form on the screen, and I could feel a rush of excitement. This was our baby.

The technician walked us through everything—the heartbeat, the size, the usual checks. We listened intently as she pointed out the features, sharing little facts that made this moment feel even more real. Everything seemed normal, like we were just another set of soon-to-be parents getting a peek at our child.

But as she moved the wand, something shifted. She lingered in one spot, her tone growing more careful. She moved back and forth over the same area, slower than before. I glanced at the screen again, this time not sure what I was looking at. Then her voice became quieter. She stopped explaining. I could feel the weight in the room change.

She stepped out of the room without a word. Juliana and I exchanged a glance. No words, but we both knew. Whatever was coming next, we weren’t ready for it.

The doctor came in, his voice calm, clinical. I could hear him, but my mind was elsewhere, staring at the screen, trying to make sense of the blurred shapes. Then he said it.

“The baby has a condition called holoprosencephaly,” he said, turning the screen toward us. “It means the brain hasn’t divided into two hemispheres. The baby won’t make it to term, so you’ll have to terminate the pregnancy.”

The words hit hard. I didn’t say anything at first. I stared at the screen, trying to make sense of the grainy black-and-white image. Our baby’s brain was a single, undivided mass. At that moment, it looked like a miracle to me—a symbol of wholeness in a world that felt increasingly divided.

The room felt smaller. I glanced at Juliana—her eyes locked on the screen, her face unreadable. My mind was racing, but my body felt numb. The dream of us becoming parents felt like it had been snatched away before it even had a chance to breathe.

We left the clinic in silence. The whole way home, I couldn’t shake the image of that brain from my mind. One minute, we were just two kids figuring out life; the next, we were parents losing one.

My priorities, my perspective, my identity had shifted. My creative ambitions would have to wait.

I may not have been traveling the world and blowing up, but I was okay.

We were okay.