I’m a sophomore in college, and for the past four months, I’ve hidden my pregnancy from everyone, including my parents. Watching my belly start to show, I had no choice but to move out. Now, I spend my days in a small rented room, surviving on expired bread and puking until I feel like I might pass out. But the most terrifying part? I don’t know who the father is. I was drunk that night and have no memory of what happened. It started because I couldn’t stop throwing up. When I saw a pregnancy test lying around in the bathroom, I couldn’t help myself; I grabbed one and took it. To my shock, it was positive—two solid lines. I stood there, hands shaking, staring at the test in disbelief. My boyfriend and I had never gone all the way, and I was still a virgin…yet here I was, pregnant. The next day, I took a day off from classes and went to Chicago Memorial Hospital to get checked out. The doctor looked at my results and told me, “Congratulations, you’re already ten weeks along. The baby’s heart is beating normally, and everything looks healthy.” My mind went blank. Fear and confusion washed over me, but I somehow managed to ask through clenched teeth, “Doctor, my boyfriend and I…we’ve only been…close, but never fully intimate.” “Well, that does depend on how close. It’s rare, but it’s possible for pregnancy to occur even with limited contact,” she explained seriously. “Maybe you’re just very fertile.” On my way back, I was still dazed and barely holding myself together. I called Ben Harris, my boyfriend. As soon as he picked up, I burst into tears and told him about the pregnancy. He was silent, then finally said, “That’s impossible.” When we met, his reaction wasn’t to comfort me but to explode, yelling, “Lily Thompson, don’t play dumb with me. We’ve never gone that far, so who’s the real father? Don’t make me play the fool.” Shocked, I yelled back, “Don’t try to pin this on me! You’re my first love, and I’ve always been careful!” Red-faced, he fired back, “Well, it’s not mine. Our ‘close moments’ didn’t go that far…are you seriously that clueless?” Seeing him so defensive, my heart sank, and I was left with only one option. “Fine, then. If that’s how you feel, let’s just break up.” I turned and walked away, holding back tears. Yet even after all this, I couldn’t go through with it. When I arrived alone at the clinic, I stood outside the door, trembling. Just as they called me back, I panicked and ran out. Lost in thought on my way home, I recalled the doctor’s words: ten weeks. Ben and I had only been away together twice, and even the last time was two weeks off from when I supposedly conceived. Ten weeks ago would have been before winter break—when a bunch of us went out to that karaoke bar downtown and sang until late. The next morning, I had woken up in a strange hotel room with no memory of how I got there. I’d assumed a friend had taken me back, but since my clothes were neat, I thought I’d just gotten too drunk and left it at that. Suddenly, it all clicked: Ben must have taken advantage of me that night and wouldn’t admit it. Calming down, I went back to the bar to check the door footage from that night, but they told me it had been erased after 30 days. Luckily, the coffee shop across the street kept three months of footage, and I managed to get their exterior video from that night. I watched, hoping to catch Ben taking me away so I could confront him, make him own up as the father, and finally discuss what to do about this baby. But to my surprise, the footage showed it wasn’t Ben who took me that night. In fact, right after winter break started, he’s caught on video saying a blurry goodbye: “See you next year, guys!” and walking away. Then he takes a phone call and leaves early, not returning that night at all. My mind went blank, thunderstruck. If it wasn’t him, then…who is the father of the child I’m carrying?
Just then, I noticed I had two unread messages on my phone. One was from my stepbrother, Ethan Marshall, and the other was an odd message from my class group chat, with a notice from Mr. Tom Farley. Ethan is my mother’s stepson from her second marriage. He’s two years older than me and didn’t do well in school, so he left for tech school early. We hardly talk and don’t have much in common. Today, though, he sent a message out of the blue, asking, “Hey, how’ve you been? I’m on my way to Chicago on the train; thought I’d come visit you.” Why would Ethan suddenly decide to visit me after all this time? I frowned. In the class group chat, Mr. Farley had posted something equally strange: “Physical exams will be scheduled soon, and it’s important they reflect accurately in your records. If you’re not feeling well, see someone about it soon…” Was it a warning, or was I just being paranoid? When I went to meet Ethan at Union Station, he showed up with bags in tow, wearing my stepdad’s old army jacket and a cigarette dangling from his lips. His slouchy, careless attitude didn’t fit in with my student life at all. To this day, I don’t know what my mom saw in my stepfather and his son—messy, poor, and plain-looking. Ethan saw me and gave a lazy smile, ignoring my distasteful look. “So, this is a rare warm welcome from my little sister. How’s that fancy Big Ten university treating you?” he asked. “Great. Not that it’s any of your business,” I replied coolly. “You seeing anyone?” “Yes,” I said shortly. “Same class as me, handsome and from a great family.” I walked faster, not interested in telling him Ben and I had broken up. “Looks aren’t everything. You need someone who’ll treat you right, like our dad treats your mom. That’s why he got her in the first place,” he said, looking smug. “Times have changed, not every successful woman is as love-struck as my mom,” I replied sarcastically. “I booked you a hotel, so you can stay there for now.” He’d come to Chicago supposedly looking for work since he said the jobs back home were no good, and my mom had asked me to help him out. As we walked into the hotel lobby, his phone rang. “Couldn’t stay in school, now you’re out of a job too, huh? You’re going to give your grandpa a heart attack!” It was my stepdad, calling him out. Ethan snapped back, “Well, maybe I’ll finally find him a granddaughter-in-law, a girl just like he’s always wanted.” “Stay close to your sister; you don’t know anyone there…” my stepdad added. “I know Chicago better than you think. I came here before winter break, didn’t I?” he retorted. I stopped dead in my tracks, handing him his room card, and stared at him in shock. “You came here before winter break?” He hesitated and then shrugged it off. “Maybe. Don’t remember.” He popped a gum bubble, made a face at me, and then took his bags, heading for the elevator. As the doors closed, my mind exploded. Two months ago, when I was assaulted…he was in Chicago too? My fists clenched, and memories of something horrible from years ago crept up. Even by society’s standards, we were siblings. Well…until that one day when we crossed a terrible line.
It was six summers ago. I was thirteen, just beginning to mature, and looked older than my age. I often got attention from boys, though I was a straight-A student and kept to myself. That summer, my mom and stepdad had only been married six months, and Ethan had just moved in with us. I remember that one humid afternoon. The power went out, and I lay on a mat, trying to nap, though I was sticky from the heat and only half-asleep. In a daze, I felt something cool run across my skin, followed by a sound of admiration. “Who’s there?” I jerked awake and saw my tank top bunched up around my waist, and there was Ethan, smirking above me, acne and hormones plastered across his face. “You’re so pretty, Lily.” With no one else home, I had no way of pushing him off. “Help! What are you doing?!” I yelled, trying to fight him off. I screamed in pain, which seemed to spook him, and he eventually backed off without doing anything more. But he still left me sobbing and ran out of the house in a panic. I buried that memory deep to protect my mom’s happiness. After that, I applied to board at school and practically stayed away for all of high school. Even though Ethan never tried anything again, I couldn’t let go of the grudge. Now, if he was in Chicago that night two months ago, could he have been the one who hurt me? I sat there, lips trembling, overwhelmed. It was too much to handle alone, so I reached out to Megan, my closest friend, and cried my heart out. While I was always the one jumping into relationships, Megan was the voice of reason who kept me grounded. But even her usual calm vanished when she saw my ultrasound report. “You’re pregnant?” she whispered, shocked. “I thought you didn’t believe in premarital…wait, did that jerk Ben force himself on you?” “No, we broke up. I have no idea who the father is,” I replied, drained. After I told her everything, Megan thought carefully, then asked, “Why not check the hotel’s security footage from that night?” Most places keep records for at least three months, so I went to the hotel, but they refused, citing guest privacy. Helpless, I held my stomach and sighed, “Maybe I should just get an abortion, then report it?” Megan shook her head. “If you do that, all evidence will be gone, and without it, the police will be powerless. It’s already been almost three months. It could be anyone from your group that night, and reporting it without proof will only raise suspicions.” She was right. But how could I figure out who had hurt me? Megan paused, thinking back on her time working nights at The Rave. She’d seen all kinds of wild stories.
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