Hiii, idk if you've written more but I loved the thing you wrote about slashers with a s/o who wants their baby! Could we see that with Michael Myers, Billy Loomis, and Brahms Heelshire if you haven't already written that!
More Slashers' Reaction When Their S/O Asks For A Baby
Summary: Imagine Michael Myers, Billy Loomis, Brahms Heelshire and Amanda Young reacting to you asking them for a baby. This is part two of this request, I hope you like it and thank you so much for the request!
Includes: Michael Myers, Billy Loomis, Brahms Heelshire & Amanda Young
A/N: Sorry for the delay in writing this request, but anyway, here it is. I loved writing more about this topic because it's always so beautiful and moving, I decided to add Amanda Young too, hope you don't mind... I hope you enjoy it! <3
You’d been thinking about it for months. Maybe longer. You and Michael had been together for years now—married, in your own strange, quiet way. He wasn’t traditional, but the commitment was real. The way he always came back to you, the way his gloved hand would linger on your back when you were anxious, or how he'd silently leave a blanket over your shoulders when you fell asleep on the couch — Michael loved you, even if he couldn't say it.
You wanted a child. His child.
You didn’t know how he’d take it. Truthfully, part of you was scared. Not because he’d ever hurt you — Michael hadn’t lifted a finger against you since the day he let you live — but because you weren’t sure if he could even process the idea of fatherhood. Would he understand? Would he want it? Or would he disappear like mist into the woods, never to return?
You waited for the right time. Days passed. Weeks. Then, one quiet evening, as rain pattered against the windows of your shared home, you finally spoke.
Michael stood by the window, mask on as usual, watching the trees sway. His knife was in his hand, not out of danger, but habit. You’d grown used to it. Somehow, it was almost comforting.
Your voice cracked when you said it.
“Michael… I’ve been thinking about something.”
He didn’t move. But you knew he heard you.
“I want… I want to have a baby. With you.”
It stretched between you like a blade. He didn’t even flinch. His back was to you, and for a moment, it felt like he’d frozen completely. Like he’d shut down.
You got up slowly, approaching him with cautious reverence, like you were trying not to scare a wild creature. Your hand found his arm—the tension there was immediate, like iron under flesh.
“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking with emotion. “I know it’s a lot, and I know you don’t speak, but I need you to know I’ve wanted this for so long. With you. A family. Our family.”
You pressed your forehead to his bicep, your arms wrapping around his thick torso. “I want someone who’s a part of both of us. I want to hold your child. Love them. Protect them. Just like you’ve protected me.”
You didn’t expect a reaction. Not at first. But slowly, so slowly, Michael turned his body toward you.
When you looked up, you met the empty, dark eyes of his mask. He stared at you. Not just observing—reading. Your face, your trembling lips, the tears threatening to fall from your eyes. His knife hand lowered gradually, until the blade touched the floor.
Michael’s gloved fingers touched your cheek, so gently it made your breath hitch. And then—like a miracle—he pressed his forehead to yours.
For a long moment, you stood there like that. Wrapped in his arms. And that’s when you said it again, desperate, needy.
“Michael... please. I need this. I want to carry your child. I want something that’s ours, forever.”
And then — without a single word — he lifted you.
Michael carried you to the bedroom like it was instinct, like he already knew what you needed. Not rough. Not aggressive. It was... deliberate. Intense.
When he laid you down, his hands moved over your body with a reverence you hadn’t felt in ages. Each touch was slow. Every movement filled with silent purpose. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.
Because Michael Myers never did anything halfway.
That night, he claimed you with quiet, primal need. There was no sadism. No violence. Just a deep, possessive worship. You were his, and he would make sure you carried proof of that inside you.
He stayed curled around you afterward, hand resting protectively over your belly.
He didn't need to say yes.
You felt it. In his touch. In his silence.
In the way his hand never left your stomach, even as you fell asleep in his arms.
And that night, the monster under the bed became the man you trusted with your future.
It started with a feeling.
At first, you brushed it off. The sudden exhaustion, the nausea in the morning, the weird way your senses were sharper — like you could smell rain before it hit the ground, or taste metal in tap water. But you knew your body, and after a few days of that dull, aching suspicion... you took the test.
You sat on the edge of the clawfoot tub in your bathroom, staring down at the little strip in your trembling hands.
You weren’t afraid. Not of the baby. Not of motherhood. You were scared of telling him. How would Michael react to the news that he’d created life?
Would he feel connected? Or would he vanish into the trees like a phantom, like this made you too human for him?
But part of you knew... deep down, he’d stayed for a reason.
That night, Michael returned late, as he often did. You never asked where he went—he wasn’t the kind of man you could cage with questions. But he always came back. Always to you.
You sat in the living room, curled in the blanket he often draped over your shoulders, the pregnancy test hidden in your hand. You heard the door creak open, followed by his heavy, familiar footsteps—silent but weighted with presence.
He stood in the doorway for a moment, looking at you through the white mask. Head tilted slightly, as if to say, Something’s different tonight.
“Michael,” you began, barely above a whisper, “I need to tell you something. Something important.”
He moved toward you with silent intent, lowering himself to one knee in front of where you sat, like he wanted to be closer to the truth. You could see the rise and fall of his chest through his coveralls. Still. Steady.
You reached for his hand.
Gloved fingers wrapped around yours, cold but strong. Anchoring you.
And then, wordlessly, you placed the small test in his palm.
“I’m pregnant,” you whispered. “I’m... we’re having a baby.”
Silence. A full minute passed. Maybe two.
He stared at the object in his hand like it was a weapon—or a gift he didn’t know how to open. His fingers curled around it so tightly you worried it might snap in half.
Not just with his head. With his whole body. He leaned in slowly, mask just inches from your face, chest rising faster now.
Your voice cracked, trembling with emotion. “You’re going to be a father, Michael.”
And suddenly, he was on the move.
He dropped the test on the table, and before you could react, his hands were on your face, your shoulders, your waist—touching you like he needed to memorize the shape of you all over again. His hands landed on your belly, gently, reverently.
No bump. Not yet. But that didn’t matter.
To Michael, it was already real.
He leaned his forehead against your stomach, breathing in slowly. The sound that came out of him was strange—deep, rasping, almost like a whimper. Like something he didn’t know he could feel had been ripped open inside him.
And for the first time since the day you met, you saw him shake.
His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you close until you were completely enveloped in him—this massive, silent, broken man who had only known death and rage until you. And now... life.
You combed your fingers through his hair, whispering through tears.
“You’re not alone anymore.”
And he stayed there like that, kneeling at your feet, forehead pressed to your stomach, arms locked around you like you were the only home he’d ever known.
From that moment on, everything changed.
Michael stayed closer. Watched your every movement. His protective instincts, already terrifying before, became bone-deep and obsessive. Any sound that startled you, he investigated. Anyone who got too close to you, he handled.
But he never touched you roughly again. Never treated you like glass, either.
He touched you with purpose, with emotion, with the haunting knowledge that something sacred lived inside you now. His child.
And at night, when he thought you were asleep, you'd feel his hand slide gently over your belly.
As if somehow, he already loved them.
You've been thinking about it for a long time. Years, honestly. Long enough for the ache to become a quiet, persistent longing. And now that you're married—settled, safe (as safe as you can be with a man like Billy)—it hits you harder than ever.
A family of your own. One you get to create from love, not destruction.
So one evening, after a long day, you're curled up on the couch with him. Some old slasher movie plays in the background, ironic comfort for the both of you. Billy’s lying with his head in your lap, fingers tracing lazy shapes over your thigh, content in a rare moment of peace. You feel your heartbeat thudding in your throat.
“Billy...” you say quietly.
You hesitate. “Have you ever thought about... us having a baby?”
He doesn’t sit up right away, but you feel the tension roll through his body. The air thickens.
You try again, a little more vulnerable this time. “I mean it. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. I want... I want our baby. Yours and mine.”
Now he sits up, the weight of his eyes crashing into you like a wave. His usual smug charm isn’t there. He studies your face, like he’s trying to see if you’re messing with him. “You’re serious.”
You nod, heart in your throat. “I want a family with you, Billy. A real one. One we build. One we protect.”
He chuckles—but it’s hollow. Defensive. “You want a little psycho with my DNA? That’s a bold move, babe.”
You cup his face, soft but firm. “I want a baby who knows love from the very start. A kid who gets to grow up safe, with two people who’d do anything to protect them. I want a baby with you. You’re not who you were back then.”
Something flashes in his eyes—panic? Fear? Desire? All of it. The silence stretches until it starts to ache.
“I’d fuck it up,” he mutters. “I’d mess that kid up like my parents did to me. You think I’m made for that kind of thing?”
“I think you’re made for more than pain, Billy,” you whisper. “And I think if there’s anyone who could change the ending to their story—it’s you.”
Your voice starts breaking now, your fingers trembling as you grab his shirt and press your forehead to his. “Please... I want this. I’ve never wanted anything more. I need this. I need you.”
Billy breathes out shakily, like your words knocked the wind out of him. His hands slide into your hair, holding your face as if you're the only thing tethering him to earth.
“You really want a baby with me,” he says again, softer this time. Disbelief and wonder dancing in his voice.
You nod. “Yes. God, yes. I want to see your eyes in them. Your smirk. Our weird sense of humor. I want to build a life.”
Something dark stirs in him then—but not cruel. Not the bloodthirsty darkness you once feared when you first met him. This is the possessive, primal kind. The kind that wants to mark you, tie you to him in the most permanent way possible.
“You want my baby?” he murmurs against your lips, voice low and almost threatening. “You sure you know what you're asking for, sweetheart?”
You nod again, breathless. “Yes. I want all of it. I want you.”
And suddenly he’s on you — gripping your thighs, kissing you with a hunger that’s deeper than lust. It’s need. It’s purpose.
He carries you to the bedroom like it’s a mission.
That night, he doesn’t just touch you—he claims you. Slowly, deeply, whispering things between kisses like, “Gonna fill you up... put a piece of me in you... no one else gets this but you...”
And somewhere in the heat of it, he presses a hand low on your belly and murmurs, almost reverently, “Our baby’s gonna be dangerous... and fucking beautiful.”
It happens on a quiet morning. The house is still. Billy’s out on a run—he always claims he “needs to burn off steam” but you know it’s just how he keeps his demons at bay.
You sit on the bathroom floor, a pregnancy test trembling in your hand. Two pink lines stare back at you. Clear. Unforgiving. Real.
You whisper it aloud, just to hear it:
You sit there for a long time. Disbelief, joy, and a wild flicker of fear all swirl in your chest. You think about his darkness, your past together, the way he clutches you at night like he’s still afraid to lose you—but none of that outweighs the hope. You know him. The real him. And this child... It's something more than pain and legacy. It’s yours. It’s his.
Billy comes home to find you waiting for him, barefoot in the kitchen, holding the test in shaking hands. He raises an eyebrow, smirking as he pulls off his hoodie.
“Should I be worried?” he teases, walking up and kissing your cheek, oblivious at first.
You hold it out to him wordlessly. No fanfare. No speech.
He stares at the stick like it’s a lit fuse.
You wait—for sarcasm, a joke, maybe even a breakdown. But none comes.
Instead, he takes the test from your hands slowly, carefully, like it might shatter. His gaze drops to your stomach, then back to your eyes.
“You’re serious?” he asks, voice low. Not mocking. Just… shaken.
You nod, suddenly feeling small under the weight of the moment. “I took three. I’m really pregnant.”
Billy says nothing for a long beat. Then, without warning — he pulls you into his arms, holding you so tightly you gasp. He buries his face in your neck and just stays there, breathing you in. You feel it in the way his hands grip you, tremble slightly.
When he speaks, it’s a whisper you’ve never heard from him before—raw and reverent.
“You’re carrying my kid...”
During the Pregnancy Billy becomes hyper-aware of everything — where you go, what you eat, who you talk to. If someone bumps into you in public, even accidentally, they’re met with a death glare that could turn skin cold.
He reads every book, even though he mocks them relentlessly. You catch him with a baby development article on his phone one night and he tries to hide it behind sarcasm.
“Someone’s gotta make sure our kid doesn’t come out quoting horror movies.”
Nightmares hit him harder during the second trimester. He dreams of losing you in childbirth, of holding a baby that doesn’t cry. You find him awake at 3AM, staring at the ceiling. When you ask what’s wrong, he just pulls you into him, silently. When your belly starts showing, Billy changes.
His touch becomes gentler, slower. He’ll lay his head on your stomach, tracing lazy circles and whispering things like, “You better not be a little asshole like I was.”
You catch him humming while folding baby clothes one day. He doesn’t realize he’s doing it. His favorite thing? Feeling the baby kick. He plays horror soundtracks against your stomach just to see if the baby responds.
“Look at that. Already got taste,” — He grins.
One night, you break down. Hormones, fear, doubt—you’re sobbing in the middle of the nursery you’ve been building together. Billy doesn’t say a word.
He kneels in front of you and kisses your belly, then your tears:
“Hey… we made it through hell. You think we can’t raise one tiny human?”
Anyone who so much as jokes about your pregnancy — weight gain, hormones, anything — gets frozen out or snapped at. He will get in someone’s face if they cross a line. He never lets you walk home alone. He tracks your phone (and yes, he told you about it openly). “Not negotiable,” he growls when you try to argue.
Billy has this possessive softness that’s almost worshipful. He’ll hold you in bed with a hand splayed over your belly and whisper things like:
“Mine. All mine. You. The baby. Everything.”
He carves a tiny wooden knife as a keepsake for the baby, half a joke, half a charm. “Just so they always know how to survive,” he mutters, slipping it into the baby’s memory box.
In the final stretch of your pregnancy, Billy becomes almost quietly reverent. No more jokes. Just soft hands, long stares, and a barely-contained urgency. His walls melt, and the man who once wore blood like perfume now kisses your swollen belly like it's holy.
“Can’t wait to meet them,” he whispers one night. “You gave me something I didn’t think I’d ever get.”
You look into his eyes—wild, tired, terrified—and see something beautiful. Something raw and real.
But a man — about to become a father.
The manor was quiet that evening, wrapped in the muffled hush of twilight. Rain tapped gently on the windows, the way it always did when the world seemed still and secretive.
You sat in Brahms' favorite room—the library, where the fireplace crackled softly, casting warm shadows against the dark shelves. He was lounging on the floor near your feet, long limbs sprawled in a lazy sprawl, flipping through an old, worn-out children’s book he liked you to read to him.
You’d been watching him for a while, heart heavy with the weight of what you were about to say. You’d practiced the words in your head a dozen times, each time faltering at the thought of how he might react.
But tonight… it felt right. Soft. Safe.
You leaned forward, voice barely above a whisper.
"Brahms… I’ve been thinking about something."
His head lifted instantly. His mask tilted in your direction, silent but alert. He always listened when you spoke like that—gentle, serious, like you were offering something precious.
You slid off the couch and sat beside him on the floor, taking one of his hands. His long fingers curled around yours automatically. You placed his hand against your chest, over your heart.
He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just stared at you. The air between you became thick—heavy with unsaid things.
"With you," you added, a little more firmly. "I want a child. Our child. I want to see your eyes in someone else’s face. I want to raise them with you. I want to give all this love somewhere new."
His head tilted slightly again. Still silent.
You searched for his eyes behind the mask.
"Please, Brahms. I’ve wanted this for so long… A family. Not just us. A little one. Someone to tuck in at night. Someone to call us ‘mummy and daddy.’"
Still, he didn’t say a word. He slipped out of your grasp and stood, slow and quiet like a phantom. Then, without explanation, he walked out of the room, leaving you sitting on the floor, heart pounding in your ears.
Part of you wondered if you’d broken something sacred between you. If he’d gone off into the walls again. If he was angry, confused, or worse—ashamed.
But then, an hour later, you heard the slow creak of the floorboards as he returned.
He was holding something.
A bundle of white and pale blue fabric in his arms. At first, you couldn’t make it out—but when he knelt beside you and slowly unfolded the bundle, your breath caught in your throat.
Tiny baby clothes. Antique ones. Preserved and wrapped with ribbons. Lace collars, little socks, a bonnet.
"My clothes," he finally spoke, voice raw and thick. "From when I was a baby."
Your heart shattered in the most beautiful way.
He looked at you then, the mask still on, but his shoulders hunched in vulnerability.
"You’d… love them?" he asked softly. "Even if they were like me?"
You reached for him, cupping his masked cheek.
"Especially if they were like you, Brahms. They’d be perfect."
He nodded slowly, the movement almost imperceptible. Then, to your surprise, he rested his forehead against yours, your fingers still threaded in his hair.
"A little Brahms," he murmured with wonder. "Running around the house… crying in the night... needing me."
There was something frightening and tender in how he said it. As if he already ached with the need to protect something that didn’t even exist yet.
That night, you asked again. No—begged.
In the candlelit bedroom, you curled into his lap, whispering softly, voice thick with emotion.
"Please, Brahms... I want it so badly. I want to carry your child. I want to feel them grow. I want to wake up next to you, round and full, knowing they’re ours."
He didn’t answer with words. He didn’t need to.
He gathered you up like you were glass—touched you like you were made of stardust and prayer. Every kiss was reverent. Every thrust, possessive and aching. His breathing grew erratic, desperate, almost panicked by the depth of the connection.
"Mine," he whispered again and again against your throat. "You’ll be filled with me. With ours.”
He lit every candle in the room. He laid out his softest sheets. He turned on the music box and asked you to hum to it while he touched you.
That night wasn’t just about passion. It was about claiming the future.
When it was over, he laid with his head on your belly, arms around you tightly, murmuring soft, broken things like lullabies.
"I’ll take care of both of you. I’ll fix the nursery. No one will ever hurt them. They’ll never be alone, not like me.”
Even if you weren’t pregnant yet, in his heart, you already were.
It had been three weeks of suspicious tenderness in your body—sensitivity, a strange flutter of nausea in the mornings, and an ache in your chest that wasn’t quite pain, but wasn’t quite normal either.
You’d spent two nights whispering to yourself in the manor’s dusty bathroom, clutching a tiny test strip as if it could change your whole world.
The second line appeared faintly, but undeniably, as your heart climbed into your throat. Your hands shook. Your lips trembled.
You were carrying Brahms Heelshire’s child.
You didn’t tell him right away. Not because you didn’t want to—but because you didn’t know how. Brahms had a particular rhythm to how he received intense emotions. If you brought it too suddenly, he might panic. Retreat into the walls. Or worse, feel like it was all a dream he didn’t deserve.
So you decided to ease him in.
That night, you made his favorite dinner—rosemary roasted potatoes, soft boiled eggs, and the flaky meat pies he always demanded on stormy evenings. He sat at the long dining table, mask in place, watching you carefully. He could always tell when something was off.
"You look different," he murmured as you placed the food in front of him. His voice was soft, but alert. Suspicious.
"Pretty. Rounder here..." He pointed gently to your face. Then your belly.
He knew. Or at least—his instincts did.
After dinner, he curled up beside you in the library, head in your lap while you read aloud to him. You’d chosen a children’s book this time—something about a mother bear and her cub.
Every time you said the word “baby,” his fingers twitched.
Eventually, the moment came when you could hold it in no longer.
You closed the book quietly, ran your fingers through his thick hair, and whispered:
"Brahms... there’s something I need to tell you."
He sat up immediately, alert, breath audible through his mask.
"You remember what we talked about... a few weeks ago? How I wanted to try for something more? A family?"
You reached behind you, taking the tiny knitted item from the table. You’d spent the entire day making it: a pair of soft white baby socks.
You placed them in his hands.
"You did it, Brahms... You gave me what I asked for."
He stared at the socks like they were holy. His fingers trembled around the edges of the fabric.
"What do you mean?" he asked, and his voice cracked—fragile, like he was bracing for a cruel joke.
You crawled into his lap, took his gloved hands, and pressed them flat against your stomach.
"You’re going to be a father. I’m pregnant. With our baby.”
He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His entire body locked in place beneath you, like stone. But his breathing—ragged, labored—betrayed the storm behind the mask.
"Brahms… did you hear me?"
He let out a low, stuttering sound. Something between a gasp and a sob. And then he ripped the mask off, his pale, uneven features contorting with emotion.
Tears welled in his eyes. You had rarely seen him cry—not like this.
"Inside you... a baby? Our baby?"
"Yes," you said softly, cradling his face. "You’re going to be a daddy."
He cried openly, like a child overwhelmed with wonder, pressing his mouth against your belly again and again, whispering things in a feverish rhythm.
"Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."
"I’ll be good. I’ll be better. I won’t let anything happen to you. Or them. Not like before.”
"You’re mine. And they’ll be mine. Forever."
That night, he didn’t leave your side for a single second.
He followed you from room to room, stroking your belly like it already held a kicking child. He whispered stories to it, brushing your skin through your nightgown. He kissed your shoulder over and over as you tried to fall asleep, repeating “my love… my girls… or my boys…” as if he was already dreaming of both.
He began working on the nursery the very next morning.
He refused to let you lift anything. He scoured the attic for old family heirlooms—a wooden cradle, a silver rattle, a rocking chair that creaked with time and love. He even hand-painted tiny animals on the walls.
And every night, he curled around you in bed like you were made of silk, speaking to the life inside you like he was already its protector, its shadow, its forever.
"They’ll never be alone," he whispered one night, hands firm on your belly as your body began to subtly change. "Not like I was. They’ll be loved. And if anything tries to take that away..."
His voice dropped, dark and low.
"I’ll keep them safe. From the whole world, if I have to."
You didn’t plan to say it that night. It just kind of... happened.
The two of you were lying in bed—your head on her chest, her arm loosely slung around your waist. The room was quiet except for the low hum of the city outside. Her heartbeat thumped slow and steady beneath your ear. Safe. Familiar.
You looked up at her, almost nervous, and murmured,
“Amanda... have you ever thought about having a baby?”
Her body stiffened beneath you. The air turned brittle.
She sat up slowly, pulling away. Her eyes scanned your face as if trying to determine whether you were serious or just messing with her.
“What the hell kind of question is that?” she said, not quite angry—but something was cracking beneath the surface. You saw it in her eyes. That old panic she thought she buried long ago.
“A real question,” you whispered. “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. I want to start a family with you. I want... a baby. Our baby.”
She scoffed. Ran a hand through her hair. Stood up like she couldn’t breathe lying down anymore. Her back was to you as she gripped the windowsill with white-knuckled hands.
“Do you even hear yourself right now?” she said quietly. “You want me to raise a kid? Me. Amanda Young. Addict. Ex-con. Jigsaw’s broken little project.”
You didn’t move. You let her unravel, because you knew trying to stop her too soon would only make her shut down.
“You remember what I’ve done, right? I built death traps. I watched people beg for their lives. I held that goddamn pig mask and felt powerful. You want to bring a child into that kind of legacy?”
You stood up, slowly approaching her from behind. You wrapped your arms around her waist, gently, resting your head between her shoulder blades.
“You’re not that person anymore, Amanda. You’re not just what they made you. You’re more.”
She didn’t speak. Her shoulders trembled under your touch.
“I’ve seen you love. I’ve seen you gentle. I’ve seen you cry when a baby cried in a movie. You’d protect them with your life. You’d raise them with everything you never got.”
Amanda let out a breath like she’d been punched in the stomach. You turned her around, cupped her face in your hands. Her eyes were glossy with unshed tears.
“Please, Amanda,” you said softly. “I’m not asking for perfect. I’m asking for you. For us. I want to raise someone who’s ours. I want to see you hold them. I want them to know your strength. Your heart.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks silently as she clung to you, burying her face in your neck like she was trying to disappear. You held her tightly, not saying a word, just letting her feel everything she never let herself feel.
“I’m scared,” she whispered, voice barely audible. “I’m so fucking scared I’ll mess them up... like I was messed up.”
“We’ll figure it out together,” you promised. “You’re not alone anymore.”
She was quiet for a long time after that. Later, you found her curled in bed, looking at old photos from when she was younger. One of them—almost forgotten—was of her as a child. It was creased, tattered. She stared at it for a long time.
“I never had anyone,” she murmured. “Not really. But... maybe someone should.”
That night, when you finally kissed her again—really kissed her—it wasn’t rushed or lustful. It was soft. Slow. Full of hesitant hope. You whispered, “I want this, Amanda. I want you to be the mother of my child.”
She let herself say yes without words.
Her hands trembled as she touched your stomach. And when you made love that night, she held you like you were breakable—but precious. Like she was afraid of herself, but more afraid of losing you. Her fingers laced with yours the entire time. Her lips never strayed far from your forehead.
For the first time in years, Amanda let herself dream of building something... not tearing it down.
Something worth surviving for.
Amanda always noticed when something was off with you.
For a few weeks now, you’d been quiet. Tender in strange, lingering ways. You’d press your hand to your stomach when you thought she wasn’t looking. You’d cry at commercials that normally made you roll your eyes. And when she touched you—especially late at night—you’d respond with this strange, aching softness, like you were holding a secret between your ribs.
So when she asked, “What’s going on with you lately?”
You knew the time had come to tell her the truth.
You pulled out the small box from the drawer beside the couch, hands shaking. Inside it, wrapped in soft white cloth, was the positive pregnancy test. Tucked above it was a folded piece of paper—nothing dramatic, just a simple handwritten note:
“I chose this. I chose us.”
You placed it in her lap and stepped back, trying to steady your breath as you watched her open it.
Amanda blinked at the box, brows furrowed in confusion. She slowly pulled away the cloth, revealing the test beneath.
Her breath hitched. Her eyes darted from the test to you and back again. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
When she finally looked up, her voice cracked.
“This... you’re pregnant?”
Amanda swallowed hard, like her throat was suddenly full of razor blades. “But... how? We never—”
You took a shaky breath and stepped closer, kneeling gently in front of her. You reached out, took her hand.
“I did it through artificial insemination. With a donor I chose. I... I started the process a few months ago. Quietly. I wanted to be sure I was ready. That we were.”
Her eyes were wide—unreadable. Her fingers squeezed yours unconsciously.
You smiled nervously. “It wasn’t an accident, Amanda. I wanted this. I chose this. I chose to have a baby. Your baby, as far as I’m concerned.”
Amanda’s breath caught again—this time in a quiet sob.
“You went through all that... just to have a baby with me?” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.
You nodded, choking back your own tears.
“I didn’t need anyone else, Amanda. I needed you. And I wanted this—our family.”
She looked stunned. Not in a bad way. In the way someone looks when a truth they never thought they could have is suddenly handed to them on shaking palms.
Amanda reached for you, both hands trembling, and cupped your face like you were something precious and fragile. Her tears began to fall—soft, slow, like rain she’d been holding back for years.
“You could’ve had this with anyone. Someone easier. Someone normal.”
You shook your head immediately.
“I didn’t want easy. I wanted you. You’re not broken, Amanda. You’re the only person I’d want to raise a child with.”
Amanda collapsed against you, wrapping her arms around your waist, holding you like a lifeline. You stroked her hair as she cried—relief and fear and love pouring out in equal measure.
You stayed that way for a long time, her body curled into yours, your hands over her heart.
Later, when you lay in bed together, her hand slowly slid over your still-flat stomach.
“They’re going to know how hard you fought for them,” she said, voice thick with emotion. “And I’ll fight just as hard... to be the kind of mother they deserve.”
From that moment forward, Amanda changed.
She still had bad days. Days where she doubted herself. Days where she worried about your safety, about bringing a child into a world that once hurt her so deeply.
But something had shifted inside her. Something big.
She stopped seeing herself as just a survivor. She started seeing herself as a protector. As a mother-to-be.
You caught her one day alone in the nursery—still unfinished—whispering something softly to your belly. You couldn’t hear the words, but her hand stayed there for a long time.
She turned to you, tears in her eyes but a smile on her lips.
“I didn’t think I’d ever get something like this. But... I do. I get to have a future now. We do.”
