“I just don’t have anything to wear, honey,” Emma snapped, her voice sharp with frustration as she tossed another dress onto the growing pile on the bed. The floral sundress, once a favorite, hadn’t fit her in months. At seven months pregnant, her body felt foreign, her wardrobe a constant reminder of how much had changed. She stood in their cozy Atlanta apartment, the late spring sunlight filtering through the blinds, casting soft stripes across the hardwood floor. The room smelled faintly of lavender from the candle she’d lit earlier, a futile attempt to calm her nerves. Finding clothes that were both comfortable and flattering was a daily battle, but it was only the surface of a deeper struggle.
Emma ran a hand over her rounded belly, feeling the gentle kick of the baby inside her. The sensation was both a comfort and a source of anxiety. For five years, she’d been married to James, a man whose steady presence had anchored her free-spirited life. As a freelance artist, she’d thrived on the freedom of working from home, taking on commissions for vibrant murals or delicate watercolor portraits. Her days had been her own, unbound by office hours or demanding bosses. She’d sketch in the mornings, lose herself in bursts of creativity, and meet friends for coffee in the afternoons. But pregnancy had shifted everything.
Her inspiration had dried up like a neglected paintbrush. The once-effortless flow of ideas was replaced by a fog of worry—about the baby, about motherhood, about whether she could ever reclaim the life she’d loved. Most days, she didn’t even open her sketchbook. Instead, she found herself staring out the window, watching the world move on without her. The apartment, once a sanctuary of color and creativity, felt like a cage. The vibrant tapestries on the walls, the shelves brimming with art supplies, the easel in the corner—all seemed to mock her inertia.
What weighed on her even more was the loneliness. James, a project manager at a construction firm, had been working longer hours lately. His company was overseeing a major downtown development, and deadlines kept him at the office well into the evening. Emma understood—he was providing for their future, for the baby—but the empty hours stretched endlessly. She missed their late-night talks, the way they’d sprawl on the couch with takeout, laughing over nothing. Now, she ate alone, the hum of the TV her only company.
“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” James said from the doorway, his voice warm but tinged with the cautious optimism he’d adopted over the past few months. He leaned against the frame, his tie loosened, his dark hair slightly mussed from a long day. He’d seen these mood swings before, knew they were part of the pregnancy’s emotional toll.
Emma sighed, sinking onto the edge of the bed. “Easy for you to say. Nothing fits, and I feel like a whale.” She gestured to the pile of discarded clothes. “And don’t tell me to relax. I’m going stir-crazy in here.”
James crossed the room and sat beside her, his hand resting gently on her knee. “I know it’s tough. But you’ll be back to your old self soon. Those dresses will fit again, and you’ll be painting up a storm. In the meantime, why don’t you try something stretchy? Like those yoga pants you love. They’ll be perfect for the trip.”
The trip. A few days ago, in a moment of impulsiveness, they’d decided to take a road trip to Miami. James had been talking about it for weeks, eager to reconnect with his high school buddies, Mike and Chris, who he hadn’t seen in years. The plan was to catch a big college football game—Miami Hurricanes versus Florida State—a rivalry match that promised tailgates, cheers, and nostalgia. Emma had always loved James’s stories about his teenage years, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about sneaking into games or pulling pranks with his friends. But she’d noticed a shift in him lately, a quiet worry that mirrored her own.