Paris in the spring was exactly as beautiful as the clichés promised-blossoming chestnut trees along the Seine, café terraces overflowing with people enjoying the sunshine, the scent of fresh bread and flowers mingling in the air. It should have been magical. Instead, I felt like a visitor not just to a foreign country, but to my own life. Isabelle Moreau's apartment in the 11th arrondissement became my sanctuary and my prison. A fourth-floor walkup in a historic building with high ceilings, tall windows, and the kind of authentic Parisian charm tourists dream about. I'd known Isabelle since design school, where we'd bonded over our shared aesthetic sensibilities and love of vintage textiles. When I called her from Northbrook, desperate for somewhere to escape to, she'd offered her spare bedroom without hesitation. "Stay as long as you need," she'd said, her French accent more pronounced after years back in her homeland. "Paris is the perfect place to think, no?" By my third month in Paris, my pregnancy was impossible to hide. My body changed daily, it seemed-breast: swollen and tender, the slight bump below my navel growing more pronounced with each passing week. I found myself studying my reflection in Isabelle's antique mirror, hands cradling the growing evidence of the life inside me. "You're glowing," Isabelle remarked one morning as I sipped herbal tea at her kitchen table. "Pregnancy suits you." I smiled faintly. "I don't feel like I'm glowing. Most days I feel like I'm barely holding it together." Isabelle sat across from me, her dark eyes kind but piercing. "You miss him, don't you? Your Lucas." "He's not my Lucas," I corrected automatically. "And yes, sometimes I miss him. Other times I'm angry at him. Most times I'm just confused." "He emails you every day," she pointed out. "Victoria forwards them to you, though you pretend not to care." I sighed. Victoria had insisted on staying connected, on keeping me updated about Northbrook, about the studio, and yes, about Lucas. At first, I'd asked her not to mention him at all. But as weeks passed, I'd found myself wondering, and Victoria, knowing me too well, had noticed. "Lucas came by the studio again today," she'd write. Or, "Lucas asked how the Henderson project was progressing." Eventually, she'd started forwarding his emails directly-messages addressed to me but sent to Victoria in the hope she might pass them along. They were surprisingly thoughtful, unexpectedly vulnerable. Memories of our high school days I'd thought he'd forgotten. Reflections on moments during our marriage when he'd begun to see me differently. His regrets for not recognizing sooner what had been in front of him all along. I read them all, though I never replied. "I don't know what to believe anymore," I admitted to Isabelle. "For so long, he loved someone else. How can I trust that his feelings have changed so completely?" Isabelle shrugged, the gesture elegantly French. "People do change, chérie. Sometimes slowly, sometimes in an instant when truth reveals itself." "And sometimes they tell you what you want to hear because it's easier than facing reality," I countered. "Perhaps," she conceded. "But is that what your heart truly believes?" I had no answer for that. My heart and my head had been at war since the moment I'd boarded the plane to Paris. As my pregnancy progressed, I established a routine in my temporary home. Mornings were spent at a nearby café, sketching designs and taking on small consulting projects for Parisian design firms Isabelle had connected me with. Afternoons often found me walking through museums or parks, when my energy allowed it. Evenings were quiet-dinner with Isabelle, perhaps a film or a book, and always Lucas's latest email to read before bed. Through Isabelle, I gradually expanded my circle. I met Camille, a midwife who specialized in expatriate births and who patiently answered all my anxious questions in perfect English. There was Henri, Isabelle's brother, who owned a furniture restoration business and offered to build a custom crib when he learned I was expecting. And Sophie, a fellow American expatriate who ran a support group for English-speaking expectant mothers in Paris. 'It's hard enough having a baby," Sophie said during my first meeting with the group. "Having one in a foreign country adds a whole other layer of complexity." The women in the group became unexpected friends-sharing experiences, offering advice, providing the support network I'd left behind in Northbrook. With them, I could voice fears I couldn't admit to anyone else. 'I'm terrified of doing this alone," I confessed during one meeting, as we sat in a circle in Sophie's sunlit apartment. "What if I'm a terrible mother?" 'You won't be alone unless you choose to be," said Emma, an English teacher who was seven months along with her second child. "Your ex-husband wants to be involved, right? That's more than many of us had." I hadn't told them the full truth-that Lucas didn't even know about the baby. That I'd run away rather than face the complicated reality of co-parenting with a man I still had such confused feelings for. "It's complicated," was all I said.. By my sixth month, the reality of impending motherhood couldn't be ignored. My body had transformed completely-my belly now a prominent dome, my walk slowed to a waddle on days when my back ached too much for proper posture. The baby-a boy, according to the ultrasound-was active, kicking and turning in Caduterte Abroad ways that sometimes left me breathless. "He's strong," Camille remarked during a check-up, her hands gentle on my abdomen as she felt the baby's position. "Like his father, perhaps?" I nodded, a lump forming in my throat. Lucas should have been there for these moments-the first ultrasound the first tiny kicks, the gradual rounding of my body as our son grew. In my darkest moments, I questioned m decision to leave, to deprive both Lucas and our child of these irreplaceable experiences. But then I would remember the confusion that had driven me to Paris in the first place. The fear that Lucas's sudden declaration of love had been born of convenience rather than genuine feeling. The need to make decisions about my child's future without the pressure of Lucas's presence, his sense of duty, his family expectations. With the help of Henri and Isabelle, I transformed the small spare bedroom into a nursery. We painted the walls a soft gray-blue, installed floating shelves for books and toys, and assembled the beautiful oak crib Henri had crafted by hand. I spent hours in Parisian baby boutiques, selecting tiny clothes and soft blankets, each purchase making the impending arrival of my son more real. 'Have you chosen a name?" Isabelle asked one evening as we folded minuscule onesies and arranged them. In the vintage dresser we'd found at a flea market. hesitated. "I've been thinking about Lucas." sabelle raised an eyebrow. "After his father?" 'It feels right," I said, smoothing a hand over my belly as the baby shifted Inside. "Whatever happens between me and Lucas, he is this child's father. And..." I paused, uncertain how to express the complex tangle of feelings. "And I want our son to have that connection to him, even if I'm not ready for one myself." sabelle nodded, understanding in her eyes. "Lucas Shepherd. It's a good name." As my due date approached, I found myself thinking more and more about return-to Northbrook, to the life 'd left behind, to the difficult conversations I could no longer postpone. Lucas had a right to know about his child. I had known that from the beginning, even as I'd justified my silence with concerns about timing and circumstance. But the thought of that inevitable confrontation still filled me with dread. How would Lucas react to the news :hat he was a father? Would he be angry that I'd kept it from him? Would he insist on rights and arrangement: :hat suited his sense of propriety rather than what might be best for our child? Would he try to use the baby t pressure me into a relationship I wasn't sure I wanted? Or worse-would he be indifferent? Would the reality of fatherhood prove less compelling than the theoretical commitment he'd expressed in his emails? These fears kept me in Paris, even as my practical side began to make plans for an eventual return. I would have the baby here, where I had built a support system and medical care I trusted. Then, when the time was -ight-when I felt strong enough, certain enough-I would go back to Northbrook and face whatever waited for me there. Including Lucas Bailey, the father of my child, the man whose emails I read every night before sleep, the complication I had run from and the connection I couldn't escape. In the meantime, I had a nursery to finish, a birth plan to finalize, and a life to prepare for the seismic change that was rapidly approaching. Whatever happened with Lucas, whatever the future held for us as co-parents or something more, one thing was certain-nothing would ever be the same again.