Moving in together should have been romantic, a milestone in their relationship. Instead, it felt like a necessity born of circumstance. Maya packed up her things from her apartment, said goodbye to Jenna, and moved into a room that still had Ethan's high school football posters on the walls.
The morning sickness hit Maya hard. She'd wake up at dawn, barely making it to the bathroom before getting sick. Ethan would hold her hair back, rubbing circles on her back, before having to rush off to work. Linda would check on her before leaving for her shift at the hospital, leaving crackers and ginger ale on the nightstand.
School became increasingly difficult. Maya tried to focus in her classes, but exhaustion overwhelmed her. She'd fall asleep during lectures, struggle to complete assignments. Her professors didn't know she was pregnant—she wasn't showing yet, and she wasn't ready to tell them. But her grades started to slip.
Ethan was working sixty-hour weeks, taking every overtime shift his uncle offered. He'd come home exhausted, smelling of grease and gasoline, barely able to keep his eyes open through dinner. They'd fall into bed together, too tired for conversation, let alone intimacy.
The stress began to show in small ways. Ethan snapped at her one evening when she asked him to pick up prenatal vitamins on his way home. "I can't do everything, Maya. I'm working my ass off here."
"I know you are," she'd shot back. "But I'm growing a human being. I think I'm working pretty hard too."
They'd apologized to each other later, both crying, both overwhelmed. This wasn't how they'd imagined their relationship would be. Where were the romantic dates? The lazy Sunday mornings? The spontaneous adventures?
Instead, their lives revolved around work schedules, doctor's appointments, and trying to save every penny they could.
Money was the constant source of stress. Even with both of them working and living with Linda, expenses piled up. The first ultrasound cost more than they'd expected. Maternity clothes, even from thrift stores, added up. They started a baby registry, but looking at the prices of cribs and car seats and strollers made Maya want to cry.
"How does anyone afford to have a baby?" she asked Ethan one night as they scrolled through baby items online.
"I don't know," he admitted. "But people do it. We will too."
Maya's body changed rapidly. By twelve weeks, she had a small bump that she could no longer hide. She had to tell her professors, her boss at the coffee shop. The reactions varied—some were supportive, others judgmental. She could see it in their eyes, the unspoken criticism: So young. Such a shame. She had so much potential.
One of her professors, Dr. Harrison, pulled her aside after class. "Maya, I want you to know that being a mother doesn't mean giving up on your education. It'll be harder, yes, but it's not impossible. I had my first child in graduate school. You can do this."
Those words meant more to Maya than Dr. Harrison could have known. She clung to them on the hard days, when she felt like she was drowning in responsibility and fear.
Ethan proposed on a Tuesday night in February. There was no fancy restaurant, no elaborate plan. They were sitting on the couch in Linda's living room, Maya's feet in his lap as he rubbed them—they'd started swelling, and it was one of the small ways he tried to take care of her.
"Marry me," he said suddenly.
Maya looked up from the baby name book she'd been reading. "What?"
"Marry me, Maya. I know this isn't romantic. I know I don't have a ring yet. I know we're broke and scared and have no idea what we're doing. But I love you. I want to be your husband. I want us to be a family—officially."
Maya's eyes filled with tears. "Are you sure? You're not just asking because I'm pregnant?"
"I'm asking because I can't imagine my life without you. The baby made this happen sooner than we planned, but Maya, I was always going to ask you. Maybe not at twenty, maybe not in my mom's living room, but eventually. You're it for me."
"Yes," Maya whispered. "Yes, I'll marry you."
They kissed, and for the first time in months, Maya felt something other than fear. She felt hope.
Linda cried when they told her, happy tears this time. "We'll have a small ceremony," she said immediately, already planning. "Nothing fancy, but something special. Before the baby comes."
Maya's parents were less enthusiastic but accepting. "At least you're making it official," her father said, which was probably the closest thing to approval they'd get.
They set a date for early March, just a few weeks before Maya's due date. It would be small—immediate family only, at the courthouse, followed by a simple lunch. They couldn't afford anything more, and honestly, they didn't need anything more. All that mattered was making their commitment official.