The Ex-Husband of Alice Langley

28

TAYLOR SWIFT
I drink some morning tea as a substitute for my usual coffee, savoring the warm, soothing flavor. A bite of my scone crumbles in my mouth while I scroll through news articles on my phone. Travis sits next to me, his focus on college football, the screen of his tablet glowing as he sips his coffee.

"Hey, Billie Eilish just announced her 14th studio album," I say, a hint of amusement in my voice.

"She's 48. When you were that old, how many did you have?" Travis asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Dear god, uh... 20-something, I believe. I mean, I made albums every other day, though." I chuckle lightly, a wave of nostalgia washing over me as I remember my younger, more prolific days.

Suddenly, a loud groan erupts from upstairs, echoing through the house. It's unmistakably Paris, and I can almost picture her dramatic flair as she struggles with whatever dilemma she's facing.

"I'll go see what that is," I sigh, setting my cup down and pushing myself up from the table. I start to walk to her room, but the moment I reach the stairs, I hear her voice filtering down.

"Go on! Stupid pants!" she yells, her frustration palpable. I can only imagine the scene as she battles her denim, determined yet defeated.

"Honey, they aren't going on. You're 14 weeks pregnant," I chuckle, shaking my head as I ascend the stairs.

"Give me a minute!" she replies, her voice muffled but resolute. I find her on her bed, attempting to kick her jeans on while sucking in her stomach like a contortionist. The effort is both comical and heartbreaking.

"Paris—"

"I'm not letting this—freaking baby—take my favorite jeans from me! These are $1,050 Carlyl jeans!" She exclaims, yanking at the waistband, her face scrunched in concentration.

"Paris, you're in your second trimester. You're starting to show. This is just what happens. We'll go maternity shopping, and you can get maternity jeans," I explain gently, trying to ease her anxiety.

"Ugh, no! I'm not ready for that!" Paris groans, her voice shaky with frustration. Her hands are trembling as she tugs on the waistband of her jeans, the denim refusing to give in. Her face is flushed, a mix of anger and helplessness swirling in her eyes, and I can see the tears starting to gather along her lashes. She's on the edge of breaking down, and I know this is more than just about the jeans.

"Lift your shirt," I say gently, trying to cut through the tension.

She pauses, her eyes narrowing slightly in confusion. "What?" Her hands are still gripping the fabric, knuckles white, as if determined to make the impossible happen.

"Just listen to your mom for 30 seconds, please," I urge softly but firmly. "Lay back and lift up your shirt."

Paris takes a breath, the weight of her emotions evident in the slow, reluctant exhale. Finally, she releases the waistband and leans back against the headboard, her movements deliberate and hesitant. With a sigh, she lifts her shirt, revealing her abdomen—the soft, delicate curve of her belly, slightly more pronounced now, a sign of the life growing inside her.

"There," I say, smiling as I point gently to the small but unmistakable bump. "That's why you can't button your jeans."

Paris blinks, staring at her own stomach as if seeing it for the first time, her expression a mix of disbelief and uncertainty. Her hand hovers just above her skin, not quite touching, as though she's unsure whether to acknowledge it. "Mom, it's just bloating," she says, her voice cracking slightly, as though she's trying to convince herself more than me.