Chapter 9: Body as Boundary
Late pregnancy made the world smaller and sharper: appointments, socks I could not pull on easily, a hospital bag packed before I was due because control had become a love language I spoke to myself.
The counselor helped me separate trauma responses from intuition. Locked doors would always raise my heart rate; that did not make me broken. It made me informed. I practiced walking through my own front door slowly, key in hand, until the click was only a click again.
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Ethan filed a minimal paternity action. I did not fight biology; I fought access without safeguards. Temporary orders mirrored the protective logic: supervised where needed, financial support by calculation, no Margaret as intermediary. She attempted one more guilt campaign through a cousin and hit the same wall of paper. Respectability without accountability was a costume my child would not be raised to applaud.
On a humid evening I stood in the nursery and assembled a mobile with my mother’s help. Tiny animals circled over an empty crib. I was afraid and ready in equal measure. Readiness included the knowledge that I had already protected this child once—in a living room, with a heel to a foot, and a refusal that cost a wedding and saved a spine.
