Chapter Fifty Four - A Call To Arms

The sun had started to dip low in the sky, casting long shadows across Harriet's bedroom floor. Golden light spilled through her sheer curtains, softening everything it touched—the stack of half-filled notebooks on her desk, the frayed ballet flats by the door, the unopened package of pregnancy vitamins still tucked beneath her pillow.

Her prom dress hung from the top of her wardrobe, its fabric catching the light and gleaming like emeralds underwater. It had always been the dress. Harriet remembered the way it shimmered under the shop lights, how it clung to her in all the right places, how she'd spun in front of the mirror with her heart fluttering. That had been before. Before the nausea, the bloating, the missed periods she couldn't explain away anymore. Before the test confirmed what she already knew deep down.

Now, as she reached for the hanger with shaking hands, there was a quiet dread behind her ribs. Still, she needed to try. Maybe it would be fine. Maybe the dress would still fit.

She stepped out of her lounge set and gently lowered the gown over her head. The fabric was cool and silky against her skin, and for a fleeting moment, she felt like her old self again—poised, elegant, young. She smoothed the dress down over her hips, already sensing the difference.

Harriet turned to the mirror and reached back for the zipper.

It stuck.

She tried again, more forcefully this time, her fingertips fumbling at the teeth of the zipper. It caught just beneath her ribcage, the bodice pulling tight across her chest. She could feel it strain against her, refusing to give.

Her breath hitched.

She twisted at an awkward angle, yanking and tugging. The zipper wouldn't budge. The fabric that once hugged her like a second skin now pressed uncomfortably into her ribs and belly, suffocating her with its refusal to make room for who she'd become.

She stared at her reflection, heart thudding in her chest. The girl in the mirror didn't look like Harriet. Not the Harriet who'd picked this dress. Not the Harriet who had dreams of prom, university, of a future built on her own terms.

This girl had roundness in her face that wasn't there before. Her collarbones no longer jutted out. Her belly wasn't big, not yet, but it was different. Her shape had shifted. Her body had begun its quiet, relentless transformation.

Tears blurred her vision.

She unzipped the dress and peeled it off slowly, careful not to rip the delicate seams. She let it fall to the floor in a soft, crumpled heap, the beaded neckline catching the light one last time.

Harriet stood in her underwear in front of the mirror, arms folded across her stomach. Her hands rested lightly against the curve just beginning to show, and for the first time, she allowed herself to feel everything: the fear, the sorrow, the resentment—not toward the baby, but toward the timing. Toward the unfairness of having to grow up too quickly.

She sank onto the edge of her bed, the mattress dipping under her weight. Her room was quiet except for the hum of the radiator and the distant bark of a neighbour's dog. 

She wasn't ready.

She whispered the words aloud to herself, like a confession. "I'm not ready."

Her voice cracked. "I'm not ready to be someone's mother."

Tears spilled down her cheeks freely now, and she didn't wipe them away. She just sat there and cried—because she was scared, because she was angry, and because she knew.

She knew that she didn't want to give up her life before it had even started. She didn't want to trade prom and late-night phone calls and the feeling of being kissed in the rain for bottles, nappies, and the endless weight of responsibility. She didn't want to raise a child while still learning how to raise herself.

She wanted to study. She wanted to travel. She wanted to make mistakes that only affect her

And wasn't that valid? Wasn't that okay?

The guilt tried to creep in, but she pushed it back. This wasn't about shame. This wasn't about failure. It was about choosing the life she was meant to have.

Harriet sat cross-legged on her bed, the soft whir of the outside world drifting through the cracked window. Her prom dress was zipped back into its garment bag, tucked away neatly at the foot of the bed like a secret she wasn't quite ready to part with.

A soft knock rapped against her door.

"Come in." she called out, voice rough but steady.

Aura stepped in slowly, wearing one of Harper's oversized hoodies and a pair of fluffy socks that barely made a sound against the floor. Her face was puffy from crying, her brown eyes red-rimmed and searching.

"Hey." she murmured.

"Hey.." Harriet replied, quickly locking her phone and setting it aside.

Aura hesitated in the doorway for a moment, then crossed the room and sat down beside her sister without waiting for permission. She pulled her knees up to her chest, the silence between them thick and oddly comforting.

For a long beat, neither of them spoke.

Finally, Aura whispered. "Do you think she's okay?"

Harriet didn't have to ask who. "I hope so."

"She was just taken somewhere. Somewhere they think is better. But no one will tell us where. It's like they're trying to erase her."

Harriet felt her throat tighten. "She's not gone. She's just... not here. But she's still Harper. She always fights her way back."

Aura nodded slowly, eyes fixed on a thread in the blanket beneath her fingers. "I miss her. I keep thinking about all the things I said to her before she left. Stupid things. About the bathroom being messy. About her taking my charger."

Harriet reached over and brushed Aura's hair behind her ear, the way Harper used to do for both of them. "She knew you loved her. She knows it now, wherever she is. We will get her back.."

Aura blinked rapidly, then turned her face toward Harriet. "You've been weird lately."

Harriet stiffened slightly. "Weird how?"

"I don't know... distant. Sad. I thought maybe it was about Harper, but..." Aura looked down at Harriet's hands, which were folded tightly in her lap. "Are you okay?"

Harriet opened her mouth to say yes, to lie like she always did when Aura asked things too closely. But something in the way Aura sat beside her—quiet, waiting, hopeful—made her falter.

"I'm pregnant." she said softly.

Aura's eyes widened. "What?"

"I found out a few weeks ago. I didn't tell anyone. Nobody knows except you." Harriet stared at the hem of her blanket. "I didn't want it to be true. I thought maybe if I ignored it long enough, it'd just... go away."

Aura's voice was barely audible. "Are you going to keep it?"

Harriet shook her head. "No. I'm not ready. And I don't want to pretend I am. I want to go to university. I want to have a life that's mine, not one that's built around a baby I'm not ready for."

Aura nodded slowly, absorbing every word with more maturity than Harriet expected. "I think that's brave."

Harriet looked at her, surprised. "You do?"

Aura shrugged. "Everyone keeps telling us to be strong, to grow up, to figure things out. But they never really let us make our own choices. You are."

Harriet blinked, and a fresh wave of tears threatened. "Thank you."

They sat in silence again, but this time it was more softer. Gentler.

Aura leaned her head against Harriet's shoulder. "I'm glad I have you."

Harriet kissed the top of her head. "Me too."

The light outside had faded into twilight, shadows curling around the edges of the room. But inside, the two sisters sat close, holding each other together in a world that kept trying to pull them apart.

And for a little while, that was enough.