That night, Gilbert came home with her favorite bagels, almond milk, and a bouquet of sunflowers. He claimed they were for the baby. "Start 'em early on good taste."
They watched a movie, her head on his chest, his hand absently stroking her hair. Everything still felt warm, safe.
But somewhere deep in Shantel's chest, something trembled.
It was so faint she almost didn't notice.
Almost.
Shantel sat up in bed after Gilbert had fallen asleep. The soft sound of his breathing filled the room, slow and even. She admired how peaceful he looked in sleep—mouth slightly open, one hand resting over his chest like he was still cradling her even in his dreams.
But her mind was racing.
She moved quietly out of bed and padded into the hallway, wrapping her robe tighter. Something about the night had changed her mood. It had been happening lately—brief moments of stillness where the happiness she felt during the day slipped through her fingers like sand. She'd close her eyes and feel... not sadness, exactly. More like unease. As though something important had been left unresolved.
She found herself in the guest room—now being converted into the nursery. The walls were half-painted a soft gray-blue. The crib sat in the corner, still in the box. Gilbert had promised to assemble it next weekend. A teddy bear Lauren had bought them a few days after she found out she was with a child was already propped on the dresser.
She stood in the doorway for a while, watching it all, as if the room belonged to someone else. The idea of being a mother felt abstract, although her body reminded her every day that the baby was coming. Was she ready for this? Could she give this child the kind of mothering she gave to the women at her shelters—calm, safe, strong?
The irony wasn't lost on her. She ran a sanctuary for people who'd been hurt. She stood beside them in court, held their hands through panic attacks, and helped them believe in themselves again. And yet here she was, in the quiet of the night, doubting her own strength.
A memory surfaced, uninvited.
A few months ago, at Gilbert's promotion party. That person. He had approached her near the bar while Gilbert was thanking clients. His smile was too polished, his breath warm and invasive. Compliments that veered off course. A hand on her lower back that lingered too long when he "tried to give her a courtesy hug." She had told him off and went back to her seat.
She just thought to herself that it was nothing. The kind of moment you don't tell anyone about—not because it didn't happen, but because you start convincing yourself it wasn't that bad.
But it was. And she hadn't told Gilbert. Because the night was meant to be his win. Because Gilbert admired that man. Because she hadn't wanted to be the wife who caused waves.
She stared at the crib box again, a lump rising in her throat. She hadn't thought of that night for weeks, but now, standing in the nursery, the connection flickered. She pressed her palm over her stomach. Her child. Their child.
And yet.
Her thoughts tangled around the date. Around the timeline. Her hand trembled slightly. Don't do this, she told herself. Don't think like that. You can't even remember anything. And you were fine. But the thought had already rooted itself.
She shook her head. No. No more doubt. She wouldn't let fear rewrite the joy they had worked so hard for.
Back in bed, she nestled next to Gilbert again. He shifted, mumbling in his sleep.
"Love you," he whispered, still half-dreaming.
She clung to that.
The next day, the clouds rolled in early. Shantel drove to Wellspring's main center just as the rain started—a slow, rhythmic tap on the windshield that matched her thoughts. She'd planned to stay home, but something about that nursery made her restless.
Inside, her staff buzzed with activity. A woman named Rita was arriving today—a domestic violence survivor who had escaped with her four-year-old daughter in the middle of the night. Her partner had been a police officer. He knew the system well enough to avoid it. But Rita had documented everything—photos, journal entries, and recordings.
Lauren spotted Shantel the moment she walked in.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Just needed to be around the work today," Shantel replied. "Has Rita arrived?"
"Just now. She's shaken, but solid."
They walked together to the intake room. Rita sat there, a slight woman in a damp hoodie, arms wrapped around her daughter, who clung to her like a shadow. Shantel greeted her gently and sat nearby, letting the silence carry her presence.
Rita's eyes met hers—tired, scared, but grateful.
"You're safe here," Shantel said softly. "We believe you. And we've got you."
The words were automatic—part of the training, yes—but also deeply felt. They had to be. These women didn't need perfection. They needed presence. And as always, in moments like this, Shantel felt that deep surge of purpose. This was what she was built for.
After the intake, Shantel returned to her office and sat for a long time, staring at the rain outside. Her fingers drifted toward the prenatal folder in her drawer. She flipped through the notes, charts, and appointment dates. She stopped at the projected conception window.
She stared at it for a long time.
No. It can't be.
She closed the folder quickly and pushed it deep into the drawer.
That night, she didn't eat much. Gilbert noticed, but didn't press.
"You okay?" he asked again, not for the first time.
She forced a smile. "Just tired."
They sat together on the couch, watching mindless TV. Shantel's head rested on his shoulder, and he occasionally rubbed her arm in circles. But her mind was a thousand miles away.
Inside her, something had begun to shift.