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MidReal Story
Preganate From The Start
Scenario:Holland is a 18 year old boy who lives with his mom and 15 year old brother named David. Holland, who is only ten weeks pregnant. He doesn't know the father of his baby and doesn't want to. Holland is so excited to meet his baby. Today, Holland and his brother have to meet their grandma in Nebraska. They hate their grandma cause of her nasty feet and oder. Hollands mom is happy to be a grandmother soon
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Grandma
She is Holland and David's grandmother who lives in Nebraska. She is elderly, persistent, yet endearing. Despite her unpleasant habits like having rough feet and a strong odor, Grandma's determination to connect with her grandkids showcases her affection and desire for family closeness. Her unexpected invitation to visit them in Nebraska brings Holland and David together, fostering a potential bond despite initial reservations.
David Parker
He is Holland's 15yearold younger brother. He is caring, loyal, and curious. David shares a strong bond with his older brother, often accompanying him on trips and supporting him through challenges. He shows concern for Holland's wellbeing, particularly during pregnancy, and chooses to keep the secret until he feels ready to handle it. David values their close relationship and enjoys their shared experiences.
Holland Parker
He is an 18yearold high school graduate who works at a gas station. He is independent, autonomous, and determined. Holland values freedom and selfsufficiency, refusing to rely on others for support. He is pregnant with his own daughter, facing an unexpected pregnancy that he chooses to keep. He shares a close bond with his younger brother, David, and is excited to meet his grandmother for the first time in Nebraska.
I was eighteen years old, almost the age of an adult.
I lived with my mom and my fifteen-year-old brother, David.
We didn’t have a house, just a motel room that we paid by the week.
Sometimes we had to skimp on paying for the room so we could afford food, but we always managed to get by without asking for help.
We didn’t like to ask for things or accept them when they were offered.
We liked being independent.
We had been this way for as long as I could remember.
It didn’t bother us because it was normal to us.
We would travel from state to state, never staying in one place too long.
We didn’t have a car, so we would hitchhike, but we didn’t go too far because we didn’t want to be apart from our mom.
She worked at different places, usually restaurants or gas stations, for a while, then we would move on.
This way she could work and we could go to school.
We liked this life and didn’t think it was unusual or abnormal.
I sat at the rickety table in the corner of the motel room, watching my mom count out wrinkled bills from her waitressing tips.
David was sprawled out on the bed, flipping through channels on the grainy TV.
The smell of stale cigarettes and cheap perfume clung to everything.
My mom’s hands suddenly stopped moving, and she slid three folded papers across the table towards me.
I picked them up, confused, and unfolded them.
They were a deed, a title, and a set of keys.
"What are these?"
I asked, my throat tightening.
"I’ve been saving," she said quietly.
"For months now. Working double shifts whenever I could. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to get your hopes up."
I looked at her, shocked.
"But why?"
I asked.
She sighed.
"I’m tired of moving around. I want to stay in one place for once. Give you two some stability."
My eyes widened as I realized what she was saying.
"We have a house?"
I whispered.
She nodded, smiling softly.
"It’s small, just outside of town. And the car isn’t much, but it runs."
David jumped up from the bed, snatching the keys from the table.
"Can we go see it?" he asked excitedly. My mom nodded again, her smile growing wider.
"Yes, let’s go."
But I didn’t move.
I just stared at the papers in my hand, my mind reeling with all of this new information.
A house?
A car?
This wasn’t how we lived.
This wasn’t what I knew.
My mom reached out and took my hand gently.
"Come on," she said softly.
"Let’s go see our new home."
I pulled my hand away and walked over to the bathroom door.
I locked the door and leaned against the sink, my hands shaking as they found their way to my stomach.
The tiny bump, barely noticeable under my loose t-shirt, felt firm and real.
David knocked softly on the door.
"Hey, you okay in there?"
I didn’t answer.
Mom’s voice joined his.
"Sweetheart, what’s wrong?"
I still didn’t answer.
Instead, I lifted my shirt and examined my reflection in the mirror.
Turning sideways, I could see the slight curve that hadn’t been there two months ago.
The thought of settling down, of having roots, made my heart race.
This baby needed stability, but the idea of staying in one place made me nauseous.
Still in the motel bathroom, I slid down against the wall and hugged my knees, my shirt riding up to expose the small bump.
The sound of Mom and David’s concerned voices faded into the background as I pictured the scene: Child Protective Services showing up at whatever cheap motel we’d be staying at, asking questions about our living conditions.
My hands shook as I imagined them taking my baby away because we had no fixed address, no stability.
The thought of losing my child before even meeting them made my chest tight.
I took a deep breath, stood up, and unlocked the door, ready to face whatever came next.
I step into the empty bedroom, my footsteps echoing on the bare wooden floor.
The afternoon sun streams through a large window, illuminating cream-colored walls and built-in shelves.
Mom hovers in the doorway as I slowly walk the perimeter, running my fingers along the smooth walls.
My eyes fix on the corner near the window - a perfect spot.
"I can fit a bassinet right here," I say quietly, more to myself than Mom.
She goes still behind me.
I turn to face her, one hand instinctively moving to rest on my stomach.
I lean against the wall, waiting for her to say something, anything.
Before either of us can speak, Mom’s phone buzzes.
She glances down, then back up at me.
"Grandma Marie wants us to come visit her in Nebraska," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
"David and I will be going next weekend. She wants you to come too."
I grimace.
The thought of Grandma Marie’s musty smell and rough feet makes my nose wrinkle.
"She reeks," I say, grateful for the distraction from the heavy moment we’ve just shared.
Mom sighs.
"We need to pack for the drive. We’ll be leaving early Friday morning."
I slide down to sit on the floor, my back against the wall.
Mom sits cross-legged on the floor, her purse open in front of her.
She pulls out a pile of loose change and starts to count it.
I watch as she pulls out four crumpled dollar bills, smoothing them flat against her leg.
"Just need to grab some bread and eggs," she says, but I know that won’t be enough.
Without saying anything, I reach into my back pocket and pull out the six dollars I made from helping the motel manager clean rooms yesterday.
I hold out the worn bills to Mom, who shakes her head.
"No, honey," she says, but I press them into her palm anyway.
She squeezes my hand, her eyes getting watery, before quickly turning away and heading for the door.
"Mom, what if we don't have enough when the baby comes?" I ask, my voice trembling slightly.
She pauses at the door, her shoulders tense.
"We'll make it work," she replies softly, but I can hear the uncertainty in her voice.
I drag my duffel bag out from under the motel bed and start packing for Nebraska.
First, I tuck away the stash of granola bars and dried fruit I’ve been hoarding since finding out about the baby - doctor said extra protein was important.
My hand brushes against the worn Minecraft guidebook David gave me last Christmas.
I fold it between my t-shirts, knowing we’ll need something to do during the long drive.
Finally, I pull out the soft yellow blanket I bought at a thrift store two weeks ago.
It’s the first thing I’ve gotten for the baby.
As I zip the bag closed, David appears in the doorway.
"Ready for this road trip?"
I ask, sitting on the edge of my bed to watch him stuff clothes into his backpack.
He grunts, shoving a pair of jeans in.
"Last time she made me massage those nasty bunions," he mutters, making gagging noises.
I remember how she’d cornered him in her recliner, her calloused heels exposed.
The memory of her yellowed toenails makes my stomach turn, and I rush to the bathroom to throw up my breakfast.
David follows, holding my hair back as I heave.
"Maybe morning sickness will get you out of foot duty this time," he jokes weakly, rubbing my back.
I wipe my mouth and look at him, determined. "Not this time—I'm going to be there for her."
I sit at the kitchen counter, watching Mom unpack the grocery bags.
My stomach growls as she pulls out items one by one - bread, milk, a few bananas.
But when I don't see the ramen packets, my heart sinks.
"Where's the ramen?"
I ask, my voice small.
Mom sighs and puts down the carton of eggs she's holding.
"I had to choose between eggs and ramen," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Both were too expensive."
She avoids my eyes as she puts away the bread, her hands shaking slightly.
I look down at the receipt on the counter - $12.47 for barely enough food for three days.
I stare at the meager groceries spread across our kitchen counter.
My stomach growls, and I shift uncomfortably on my stool.
Mom's hands pause on a loaf of bread, and she looks at us with a forced smile.
"Who wants ramen for dinner?"
The question hangs in the air, heavy with our financial struggles.
I swallow hard, my throat tightening.
I place a hand on my barely-visible bump, feeling a mix of emotions.
"Your unborn grandchild does," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
The words feel strange leaving my mouth - it's the first time I've directly acknowledged the baby to her since that interrupted moment in the empty bedroom.
Mom's eyes widen, and she drops the loaf of bread onto the counter.
"You're... you're having a baby?" she stammers, her voice a mix of shock and something else I can't quite place.
David steps forward, his hand finding mine. "We wanted to tell you in person," he says gently, squeezing my fingers for support.
I slouch in the backseat of our used Toyota, watching David doze beside me as Mom navigates the highway toward Nebraska.
The morning sun hits my face through the window, making my nausea worse.
I clutch my duffel bag with the yellow baby blanket inside, seeking comfort as each mile brings us closer to Grandma's musty house.
"We're stopping for gas," Mom announces, her voice breaking the silence.
I check my pocket - three dollars left from my last motel cleaning job.
Not enough for the crackers I'm craving.
David stirs awake, blinking at me with sleepy eyes.
"Want me to grab you something from the gas station?" he offers, noticing my discomfort.
I shake my head, forcing a smile. "Save it for the baby," I reply softly, trying to sound more confident than I feel.
While Mom fills the gas tank, I step out to stretch my legs and hopefully settle my stomach.
The convenience store parking lot is empty except for our car and a few other vehicles.
I walk around the building, taking slow breaths to ease my nausea.
As I approach the dumpster, something green catches my eye.
I kneel down and pick up a crumpled piece of paper.
It's a twenty-dollar bill.
My heart races as I check if anyone is watching.
I tuck the money into my pocket, feeling a mix of excitement and guilt.
Inside the store, I grab two boxes of strawberry Pop-Tarts - my first real snack in days.
At the counter, I pay with the crumpled twenty and receive $14.87 in change.
As I step outside, David is leaning against the car, watching me with curiosity.
"Where'd you get the Pop-Tarts?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.
I hesitate for a moment, then decide to tell him the truth. "Found a twenty by the dumpster," I admit, trying to gauge his reaction.
David looks at me, then at the Pop-Tarts in my hand.
"Those for the baby?" he asks, his voice soft.
I sit in the passenger seat, breaking a strawberry Pop-Tart in half.
The sweet smell wafts up, making my stomach growl with hunger.
But David's words echo in my mind: "Those for the baby?"
I stare at the golden pastry, calculating its nutritional value versus the cost of real food.
Mom glances over from the driver's seat, noticing my hesitation.
The found twenty dollars suddenly feels heavy in my pocket.
Making a decision, I wrap the Pop-Tart pieces back in their foil and stuff them into my duffel bag.
"You're right," I say to David, my voice firm.
"Let's stop at the grocery store instead."
David nods, understanding the unspoken resolve in my voice.
"Good call," he replies, a hint of pride in his eyes.
Mom smiles softly, catching our exchange in the rearview mirror. "We'll make it work," she assures us, her voice filled with determination.
I lean against the grocery cart while Mom and David head to the bread aisle.
My gaze drifts toward the deli counter, where rows of fresh sandwiches are displayed.
My mouth waters at the sight of thick-sliced ham, crisp lettuce, and tomatoes on wheat bread.
The deli worker notices me staring and smiles.
"Want me to make you one?"
I nod, using five dollars from the found twenty to pay for the sandwich.
The deli worker carefully wraps it in paper, handing it to me with a friendly smile.
As I take a step away, the familiar smell of processed meat suddenly triggers my nausea.
I clutch the wrapped sandwich and rush to the grocery store bathroom, barely making it to the toilet.
I settle back into the passenger seat, unwrapping the deli sandwich despite my earlier nausea.
The lettuce and tomato taste fresh, and my stomach accepts the food this time.
David watches from the backseat as I take small, careful bites.
Between mouthfuls, my hand drifts to my stomach, gently rubbing the slight swell beneath my t-shirt.
The baby seems calmer now that I'm eating.
Mom glances over, her eyes lingering on my hand's protective gesture.
I stare at Grandma's faded yellow house as Mom parks in the gravel driveway.
The four-hour drive has left me exhausted and queasy, my deli sandwich threatening to make a reappearance.
David nudges me awake from my half-sleep, pointing at Grandma's silhouette in the doorway.
Through the windshield, I notice her wearing those same worn slippers that always expose her rough feet.
My hand instinctively moves to my hidden bump as we sit in the idle car.
The smell of her musty perfume already drifts through the vents, making my stomach churn.
"Do you think she'll notice?" David asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
Mom turns off the engine and sighs. "She always notices everything, but we'll tell her when the time is right."
I nod, feeling the weight of the secret pressing down on us all.
I step onto Grandma's porch, the familiar creak of the wooden boards beneath my feet.
The smell of her perfume hits me like a wave, making my stomach churn.
As she moves to hug me, the scent grows stronger, and I can feel bile rising in my throat.
Stumbling back, I press my hand against my belly and whisper "It's for the baby" under my breath.
The nausea intensifies.
"It's for the baby," I repeat louder, drawing concerned looks from David.
Grandma reaches for me again, and I can't hold back.
I back away from her outstretched arms, pressing my hand against my churning stomach.
"Your perfume is making me sick," I manage to say between shallow breaths.
She laughs, a deep, throaty sound, and pulls out a pink bottle from the pocket of her housecoat.
"This is my signature scent, only five dollars at the drugstore!" she declares proudly, spritzing more of the knockoff Chanel into the air.
The fresh wave of artificial flowers hits my nose, and I gag.
David steps between us, but Grandma keeps spraying, oblivious to my distress.
I turn and rush back to the car, desperate for fresh air and space to breathe.
I sit on the edge of Grandma's floral couch, my legs pressed together as she chatters about her garden.
The perfume still lingers in my nose, making my stomach churn.
When she offers us stale cookies from a tin, I shake my head and press my hand against my belly.
David catches my eye from across the room, understanding written on his face.
Looking around Grandma's worn house with its peeling wallpaper and broken screen door, reality hits hard.
"I got pregnant at the worst time," I whisper to myself, too quiet for anyone else to hear.
David leans in closer, his voice gentle but firm.
"There's never a perfect time, but we'll figure it out together."
Grandma pauses mid-sentence, her eyes narrowing as she studies us both.
I slouch in the backseat during our drive home from Grandma's, my stomach growling.
I skipped breakfast because I was nervous about seeing Grandma, and now I'm regretting it.
The smell of her musty perfume still lingers on my clothes, making me queasy.
When we pass a gas station, I see the sign for potato chips and my craving hits hard.
"Mom, the baby wants potato chips," I say, watching her grip tighten on the steering wheel.
She pulls into the station, her movements stiff.
She digs through her purse, counting out loose change.
David looks away as she empties her wallet onto the console, revealing only three crumpled dollar bills.
"Mom, I can cover it," David says softly, reaching for his own wallet.
She hesitates, her pride battling with necessity, before nodding reluctantly.
"Thank you," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the hum of the engine.
I sit cross-legged on my bed, balancing my cracked Android phone on my knees as I scroll through baby store websites.
The cheapest bassinet is ninety-eight dollars, not counting shipping.
I check my wallet - only twelve dollars left from cleaning motel rooms last week.
Counting the spare change in my pocket adds another sixty-three cents.
My jaw tightens as I look at the price again.
I throw my phone down on the bed, harder than I meant to, making the screen crack more.
I stare at the broken screen, the baby store website still visible through the cracks.
The bedroom door opens, and Mom leans in, her face brightening.
"Hey, I just saw a bassinet by the curb three blocks down," she says.
"It looks like someone left it there for free."
My heart races at the possibility of getting something for free, but doubt creeps in.
"Is it broken?"
I ask.
"No, it just looks like it's barely used. There are some stains on it, but nothing a good wash can't fix," she replies.
I grab my jacket from the back of my chair and follow her out of the room.
I sit on the floor next to the scuffed bassinet we brought home, running my fingers over the faded yellow fabric.
Mom stands in the doorway, watching me inspect it.
I press down on a small brown stain on the mattress pad, and the springs creak beneath my touch.
I wonder if it's safe enough for a baby.
When I lift the thin blanket, dust makes me sneeze.
Mom steps forward, her voice gentle.
"We could clean it up. It might look better then."
I shake my head, standing up and grabbing my duffel bag from the closet.
I zip it shut, knowing some things can't be fixed with just a wash.
I sit on my bed, staring at the wall after another long day of nausea.
I reach into my back pocket and pull out the small black and white ultrasound photo from last week's clinic visit.
The grainy image shows my baby's tiny profile - a curved spine, round head, and what looks like a waving hand.
My fingers trace the outline carefully, not wanting to smudge it.
After studying every detail, I slide the photo behind my cracked phone case, positioning it so I can see my baby's face through the clear plastic.
I sit at the kitchen table, my growing belly pressed against the edge.
Mom sorts through bills, her brow furrowed.
I tell her the ultrasound showed a girl, and she tries to smile, but her hands shake as she holds up the mortgage statement.
The amount due is three times what she saved.
I touch my stomach, now clearly visible at twenty-four weeks, while Mom explains we might lose the house.
The thought of going back to motels makes my chest tight.
David walks in as Mom crumples the paper, tears falling onto the unpaid bills spread across the table.
I lean against the kitchen counter, watching Mom sort through job applications at the diner down the street.
She's been there for a week, and I mention I should apply too.
Her head snaps up sharply.
"You're fourteen weeks pregnant, Holland. Absolutely not."
I argue that plenty of pregnant people work, pulling out my phone to show her examples.
Mom snatches the applications away, stuffing them in her purse.
"This isn't up for discussion," she says firmly.
I grab for the papers anyway, but she holds them out of reach.
I step back, realizing that some battles aren't worth the fight.
I sit cross-legged on my bed, the yellow baby blanket from the thrift store spread across my lap.
After counting our remaining grocery money - six dollars and thirty-two cents - I fold the blanket carefully, remembering the two dollars I spent on it.
When I tell Mom I could resell it for five dollars at the consignment shop, she walks over and gently takes it from my hands.
"This is your baby's first gift," she says quietly.
I reach to grab it back, insisting we need food more than blankets, but Mom tucks it into my dresser drawer and closes it firmly.
David clears his throat, breaking the tense silence.
"Maybe I can help," he offers, glancing between us.
Mom looks up, surprised, "How, David? We're barely scraping by as it is."
"I just got hired," he blurts out, holding up a handful of change from his tips at the gas station.
"I'm cleaning houses for rich people. It starts tomorrow and I get fifteen dollars an hour."
Mom turns around sharply, her hands still dripping with soap from washing dishes.
"You what?"
David nods enthusiastically.
"I went to that new place downtown. You know, the one with the fancy cars out front? They're a cleaning service and they hired me on the spot."
I watch as he pulls out official-looking paperwork and spreads it across the table.
"It's legit, Mom. They do background checks and everything."
I glance at him, remembering how I was rejected from that same company last week because of my pregnancy.
David catches my eye and winks.
"Don't worry, sis. I'll split my first paycheck with you."
I sit at the kitchen counter, watching David count his tip money from the cleaning service.
He stacks the crumpled bills into neat piles, his brow furrowed in concentration.
When he reaches three hundred dollars, his eyes widen and he looks up at me.
"Three hundred dollars," he whispers, his voice filled with disbelief.
I nod, my mouth hanging open in shock.
Mom walks into the kitchen, still wearing her waitress uniform from her shift at the diner.
She glances at David and her eyes widen when she sees the stacks of money.
"David," she breathes, "where did you get all that?"
David stands up and hands her the money, a proud smile on his face.
"I told you I got a job," he says, "I'm cleaning houses for rich people."
Mom takes the money from him, her hands shaking slightly as she holds it.
She looks up at him, tears in her eyes.
"Oh, David," she whispers, "this is amazing."
She pulls him into a hug, still holding the money in one hand.
I touch my growing belly gently, feeling a mix of emotions inside me.
I'm grateful that my fifteen-year-old brother is helping to support us financially, but I also feel guilty that he has to do so much at such a young age. David catches my eye over Mom's shoulder and mouths "for the baby" to me.
I smile slightly, feeling a sense of hope for our future.
Maybe things will get better soon.
Maybe we'll be able to move out of this small apartment and into something bigger and better.
Maybe we'll be able to afford all the things that our baby needs.
Mom pulls back from hugging David and looks down at the money in her hand again.
"This is amazing," she says again, "but how did you get so much?"
David shrugs, "Tips," he says simply.
Mom nods, "Well, thank you," she says, "this will really help us out."
She turns and walks over to the kitchen counter, where she sets down the money and starts counting it again.
David watches her for a moment before turning back to me.
"We'll make it work, Holland," he says, his voice steady and sure.
I sit at the kitchen table counting the remaining change from David's tips when Mom bursts through the door, waving a piece of paper in the air.
"I did it," she exclaims, barely able to contain her excitement.
"I bought a trailer home from one of my coworkers. It was only two thousand dollars!"
I look up, shocked, and David's face pales as he stares at her.
"Where are we going to live?" he asks quietly.
Mom smiles brightly, "It's on the other side of town," she explains.
"It's small, but it's perfect for us."
I glance down at my growing belly and feel a sense of unease.
"What about my baby?" I ask hesitantly.
Mom's smile falters slightly, "We'll figure it out," she says softly.
"We can fix it up and make it our own."
I grip the edge of the table tightly, trying to push away the memories of all the moldy trailers we passed while hitchhiking across the country with Dad.
Mom notices my unease and reaches over to pat my hand gently. "It's okay, Holland," she reassures me.
"We'll be happy there. You'll see."
David nods slowly, still looking pale.
"How much do we owe?"
Mom hesitates for a moment before answering.
"I used your cleaning money for the down payment," she admits quietly.
David's face falls as he looks at her.
"All of it?"
Mom nods apologetically.
"I'm sorry, David. I didn't want to use your money without asking, but I had to act fast before someone else bought it."
David sighs heavily and looks down at his hands.
"Okay," he says softly.
"I guess it'll be okay."
I watch as Mom pulls out her phone and shows us photos of our new trailer home.
The metal walls are rusted and decaying, with broken windows that let in sunlight and cold air.
The inside is just as bad, with peeling wallpaper and a dirty carpet that's stained with unknown substances.
I stand up quickly and walk away from the table without saying a word.
David follows me, catching up in the narrow hallway.
"Holland, wait," he calls softly, his voice echoing off the thin walls.
I stop and turn to face him, my eyes filled with unshed tears.
"I can't do this," I whisper, running my hands over my swollen belly.
David looks at me, his eyes filled with concern.
"What are you talking about?"
I gesture towards the kitchen where Mom is still sitting, looking at photos of the trailer on her phone.
"We can't live in that," I say, my voice cracking.
David sighs and reaches out to touch my arm gently.
"It's not so bad," he says softly.
"We can fix it up and make it our own."
I shake my head, feeling a lump form in my throat.
"You don't understand," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
"CPS will take my baby away if we live in that rotting piece of metal."
David frowns, his brow furrowing in confusion.
"What are you talking about?"
I pull away from him and walk back into the kitchen, grabbing one of the photos from Mom's phone.
I point to the black mold creeping up the walls, the broken windows that let in cold air, and the dirty carpet that's stained with unknown substances. "This is a death trap," I say, my voice shaking with fear and anger.
"If we live here, social workers will show up and write reports. They'll take my baby away from me before she's even born."
Mom looks up at me, her eyes wide with surprise.
"Holland, calm down," she says softly.
"We'll make it work. We always do."
I shake my head, feeling tears prick at the corners of my eyes.
"No," I say firmly.
"This isn't going to work. You wasted David's money on this death trap."
I turn and walk away from them, heading towards our cramped bedroom where I collapse onto the mattress in tears.
David follows me, sitting down next to me and putting a hand on my shoulder.
"Holland, please," he says softly.
"We'll figure it out. We always do."
I jerk away from him and sit up straight, wiping the tears from my face with the back of my hand.
"No," I say firmly.
"I just want my little girl to be happy," I whisper, holding the ultrasound photo in my hand.
I trace the outline of her tiny form through the cracked phone case, feeling my chest tighten with worry.
The moldy trailer photos Mom showed us earlier play over and over in my mind, making me feel sick to my stomach.
There's a knock at the door and David stands up to answer it.
I hear him talking to someone in hushed tones before he comes back inside with a bucket of cleaning supplies in his hand.
He sets the bucket down on the floor and sits next to me on the bed, looking at me with concern etched across his face.
"Hey," he says softly, "are you okay?"
I nod slowly, feeling tears prick at the corners of my eyes.
David reaches out and takes the ultrasound photo from my hand, examining it closely.
I watch as he studies our daughter's tiny features, his expression filled with wonder. "She's beautiful," he whispers, handing the photo back to me.
I nod, feeling a lump form in my throat.
"She is," I say quietly, "and I want her to have a good life."
David looks at me, his eyes filled with understanding.
"We'll figure it out," he says softly.
"We always do."
I smile weakly at him, feeling a sense of gratitude for my little brother.
He's always been there for me, no matter what challenges we've faced.
Outside our bedroom window, Mom is on the phone making calls about repairs for the trailer home she bought with David's tip money.
I can hear her talking about new windows and patching up holes in the walls.
David reaches into his pocket and pulls out more tip money from today's cleaning job.
"Here," he says, holding it out to me.
"I don't want you to worry about money anymore."
I shake my head and push his hand away gently.
"No, you keep it," I say softly.
"You've done enough for me already."
David nods and puts the money back in his pocket.
I can see the worry etched across his face as he looks at me.
"I just want you to be happy," he says quietly.
"I know," I reply, smiling weakly at him.
"And I will be. We'll figure this out together."
He nods slowly and stands up from the bed.
"I have to go clean a house," he says softly.
"But I'll be back soon."
I nod and watch as he walks out of the room, feeling a sense of gratitude for my little brother.
Outside, Mom is still on the phone making calls about repairs for the trailer home she bought with David's tip money.
I can hear her talking about new windows and patching up holes in the walls.
I stand up from the bed and walk over to the window, looking out at her as she talks on the phone. She notices me watching her and waves, smiling brightly.
I wave back, feeling a sense of unease wash over me as I look at the photos of our new home on her phone.
The metal walls are rusted and decaying, with broken windows that let in sunlight and cold air.
The inside is just as bad, with peeling wallpaper and a dirty carpet that's stained with unknown substances.
I turn away from the window and walk back to the bed, feeling a lump form in my throat as I think about living in that trailer home with my baby girl.
There's a knock at the door and Mom walks in holding a large box in her arms.
"Hey," she says softly, setting the box down on the floor.
"I got something for you."
I look at her curiously as she opens the box and pulls out pieces of a crib.
"It's secondhand," she explains, "but it was only twenty dollars at Goodwill."
I stare at her in disbelief as she begins to assemble the crib, her hands shaking slightly as she tries to attach the side rails. "Mom," I say softly, "this crib isn't safe."
She looks up at me, confusion etched across her face.
"What do you mean?" she asks quietly.
I point to the side rails, which wobble precariously when touched.
"If we put our baby in this crib, she could fall out," I explain gently.
Mom looks down at the crib, her expression filled with disappointment.
"I didn't notice that," she admits softly.
"I'm sorry, Holland," she says, her voice trembling.
"I just wanted to help."
I take a deep breath, trying to stay calm.
"I'm sorry," she repeats, "I just want to help."
I nod slowly, feeling a sense of guilt wash over me.
"I know you do," I say softly, "but this crib isn't safe for our baby."
She looks at me, her eyes filled with worry.
"What are we going to do?" she asks quietly.
I shrug, feeling a sense of helplessness wash over me.
"I don't know," I admit, "but we can't use this crib."
Mom nods slowly and stands up from the floor, looking down at the unassembled crib pieces with a mix of sadness and frustration.
"We'll figure it out," she says softly, "we always do."
I nod and watch as she walks out of the room, leaving the crib pieces scattered across the floor.
Outside my window, I hear David coming home from his cleaning job.
I stand up and walk to the front door, opening it as he steps inside.
He looks at me with a mix of concern and exhaustion etched across his face. "Hey," he says softly, setting his cleaning supplies down on the floor.
"How are you?"
I smile weakly at him and close the door behind him.
"I'm okay," I reply quietly.
"Just worried about our baby."
David nods and walks over to me, putting a hand on my shoulder.
"We'll figure it out," he says softly, "we always do."
I nod and lean into his touch, feeling a sense of gratitude for my little brother.
He's always been there for me, no matter what challenges we've faced.
"I love you," I whisper softly.
He smiles and pulls me into a hug, holding me tightly in his arms.
"I love you too," he replies quietly.
As we stand there embracing each other, Mom walks into the living room holding her phone in her hand.
"Hey," she says softly, her face filled with excitement.
"I have something to show you guys."
David and I look at each other curiously as she opens her phone and shows us photos on the screen.
The first picture is of a different trailer home - this one with gleaming metal roof panels and fresh white siding. She swipes to the next picture, which shows a clean carpeted living room with large windows that let in plenty of sunlight.
The kitchen has modern appliances and plenty of cabinet space for food and cookware.
There are four bedrooms - each one large enough for a bed and dresser.
I sit on the bed staring at the photos of the nicer trailer home, feeling a mix of hope and skepticism.
When Mom says that she actually bought this one instead of the moldy trailer, I freeze in place.
David grabs the phone from her hand and looks at the photos more closely.
"How did you afford this one?" he asks quietly.
Mom smiles and sits down next to me on the bed.
"I used your cleaning money," she explains softly.
"But I also had some secret savings that I didn't tell you about."
David looks at her with surprise etched across his face.
"You had secret savings?"
Mom nods slowly and takes his hand in hers.
"I know it wasn't right to keep it from you," she says softly, "but I wanted to surprise you guys with something special."
I touch my belly, imagining my daughter sleeping in the bright bedroom shown in the pictures.
Part of me wants to believe this miracle, but another part remembers all the times we've been disappointed before.
I stand up from the bed and look at Mom with a mix of uncertainty and hope etched across my face. "I want to see the purchase papers," I say quietly.
Mom nods slowly and stands up from the bed, walking over to a nearby drawer and pulling out a stack of documents.
She hands them to me and I begin to flip through them, searching for any signs of deception.
As I read through the papers, my heart begins to race with excitement.
This could be our new home - a place where we can start fresh and build a better life for ourselves.
I sit at our kitchen counter counting Mom's tip money spread across the surface.
The bills are crisp and fresh, hundreds and twenties that total two thousand dollars.
It seems like an impossible amount for a waitress to make in tips, and my stomach twists with worry as I count the money again.
"Mom," I say softly, "how did you get so much in tips?"
She looks away from me, avoiding my eyes as she stuffs the money into her purse.
David stands in the doorway watching us, his expression filled with concern.
I reach out and grab Mom's arm as she turns away from me.
"Mom, tell me," I press, "this is too much money for tips."
She sighs and sits down at the kitchen table, pulling the money back out of her purse.
She begins to sort it into neat stacks, her hands shaking slightly as she arranges the bills.
"Some customers leave extra change without realizing it," she explains softly, "and sometimes they don't even notice how much they've given me."
I look at her skeptically, watching as she continues to sort the money.
David steps forward and places a hand on her shoulder.
"Mom, we need to know the truth," he says quietly.
She looks up at him, her eyes filled with uncertainty.
"I'm telling you the truth," she insists, "some customers just don't pay attention to their change."
I reach out and grab one of the hundred-dollar bills from the stack.
It feels crisp and new in my hand, like it's never been folded or creased before.
I hold it up and examine it more closely. "This bill looks brand new," I say quietly, "like it just came from the bank."
Mom snatches the bill from my hand and shoves it back into her purse.
"It's probably from some confused old person who can't count their change," she explains quickly.
Her words sound rehearsed, like she's been preparing this excuse for a while.
I walk through the door of our new trailer home, following Mom and David down the short hallway.
We pass by the small bathroom on our left and then stop in front of a doorway to the right.
"This will be your room," Mom says, gesturing towards the door.
I step inside, my eyes widening in surprise at what I see.
Against one wall is a king-size bed with a dark wooden frame, covered in a crisp white comforter.
The bed takes up most of the space in the room, leaving only a small area between it and the opposite wall.
And against that wall sits a white wooden crib, its rails gleaming in the sunlight that streams through the window.
The crib is pristine, as if it's never been used before.
I walk over to it cautiously, running my hand along each rail and spindle to make sure they're sturdy enough to hold my baby safely.
The mattress is firm and clean, and when I press down on it, I can feel its softness beneath my palm. I check the safety latches on each side of the crib, making sure they work properly and won't come loose while my baby is sleeping.
And then I look up at the mobile hanging above the crib - a collection of colorful toys that will entertain my daughter as she drifts off to sleep.
David stands in the doorway watching me as I examine the crib more closely.
I run my fingers along the smooth wood, feeling a sense of contentment wash over me as I realize that this crib is perfect for my baby girl.
It's safe and sturdy, with everything she needs to sleep comfortably and soundly.
But as I turn to leave the room, a single thought lingers in my mind: where did it all really come from?
