Shattered Pieces

One

"Baby!" Spencer yells as he walks into the house.

I rush out of the room, eager to quiet him now that I've finally found a moment of peace. When you have a ten-month-old at home, you learn to appreciate every quiet moment because you never know when you'll get another one.

Grayson was a surprise in every sense of the word. Spencer was considered a no brainer to be a first round pick by almost every credible analyst after his junior season. I was sure he was going to declare early, and even though I didn't know what married life would look like with him being wherever he was drafted and me still in Baton Rouge, I was determined to make sure he saw his dreams through.

The national championship happened to be in the Super Dome that year which was perfect because Spencer got to come right home to me after the win! I was so proud of him.

"Do it, Spence. Don't worry about me. I'd follow you anywhere. I'll be fine. We'll be fine."

"We started this together, Olivia. We'll finish it together." He pecks my forehead. "People may think I'm crazy, but my wife is here, finishing her degree, so I'm staying— with you."

"Wh— Spencer... what are you saying right now?"

I begin to tear up because there's no way he'd forego the draft when he's basically locked in as a top ten pick, right? That'd be insane.

"I'm going to finish school with you. I'll enter the draft next year, and we'll start that new phase of our life together. It's always you and me— before everything."

I'd never loved him more at that moment. We celebrated on that fateful January night like we'd never celebrated before. It'd been such a busy week. I'd missed one pill, maybe two? I otherwise took my birth control religiously. Same time. Everyday. Surely, missing one, maybe two pills wouldn't be that big of a deal.

Wrong.

I remember the day vividly, four months later, sitting out by the lake with Spencer. My stomach felt like it was under attack; little flutters— they scared me. Sure, I'd missed a period, but that was normal for me on birth control— that thing that was supposed to prevent me from getting pregnant.

When the weird somersault feeling in my stomach began happening every day, I decided to see a doctor.

"You left the question about your last period blank."

"Oh, that's because my birth control makes them so irregular I don't even track them." I shrugged.

"But you still typically have them?" The nurse asked me, her brow arched.

"I'm not pregnant," I spoke matter of factly.

There's no way I was pregnant. My stomach was as flat as ever—no change in appetite. No nausea. No frequent peeing. Of all the textbook symptoms, I had none of them.

Wrong. Again.

I was, in fact, pregnant. Four months pregnant.

I drove home, my mind racing. Spencer and I had finally gotten our own apartment after living with his parents for the first year and a half of our marriage. A cute, incredibly tiny, studio apartment.

The bed was in the kitchen. Not literally, but it may as well have been. There was no room for a crib. No room for a baby.

I crawled into our apartment, grateful Spencer was still at practice. I remember timidly opening my purse and carefully grabbing out the sonogram that was given to me as a parting gift for an appointment I thought was about a little upset stomach.