Money Power 12

Emery’s POV

My life was never peaceful. This kind of calm, it feels foreign, almost unreal. But maybe that’s why I hold onto it so tightly. Because for the first time… I finally know what peace feels like.

Days in the coastal town were gentle, it felt safe. I liked it that way. I always wake up early. Sometimes to the birds, and sometimes to the bakery clatter downstairs. I pulled on a sweater, wrapped my scarf, and headed to the learning center.

My students weren’t easy, but they were honest, that mattered.

“Miss Rose, is it true Americans eat peanut butter with jelly?” one boy asked.

I laughed. “Unfortunately, yes. And it’s actually pretty good.”

He looked disgusted. “That’s messed up.”

That kind of honesty was healing. There were no games here. No secrets, just kids who told you when your mascara was smudged and when your lesson was boring.

“You talk funny,” one girl said.

“I’m not from here,” I told her.

“Good. Everyone here talks like cardboard.”

Afternoons were mine. After the final school bell rang and the halls emptied out, I’d walk down to the pier, letting the salty air fill my lungs.

The ocean made everything feel lighter, like it could carry the weight I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. I’d sometimes stop to feed the birds or sit with a to-go cup of coffee from the café on the corner, the one where no one looked twice if you sat alone for too long.

People here minded their own business, but they still remembered your name.

The barista started giving me decaf without needing the reminder. One morning, she handed me the cup with a knowing smile.

“Thought I’d save you the reminder,” she said, already turning back to the espresso machine.

I smiled, touched by the gesture. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Little things like that made it feel like I’d landed in the right place, quiet kindnesses. No pressure to explain myself, no expectations to meet.

Every week, I stopped by the local clinic, just a short walk from my apartment. The doctor was warm but direct, the kind of person who told you the truth without making it sound like bad news.

At my last check-up, she slid the monitor closer and turned the volume up.

“Baby looks good,” she said, eyes on the screen. “Strong heartbeat.”

I smiled, watching the flutter on the screen that didn’t seem real but somehow meant everything. “Sounds like a fighter,” I said softly. And I’d never meant anything more.

Back home, after work or errands or slow walks along the beach, I’d sit on the edge of my bed and write. There was a leather-bound journal on my nightstand, its cover soft and worn at the corners from use. It wasn’t really mine, it was for the baby.

Just short letters. Nothing too deep or dramatic, simple moments from the day, thoughts I couldn’t say out loud, feelings I hadn’t figured out how to process.

Sometimes I wrote about the students or the sea breeze or the way I still felt like I was learning how to breathe again.

Other times, I just scribbled little hopes and reassurances, lines like, ‘You are wanted, you are safe, you are already loved. It helped.’

Even on the harder nights, the ones where memories threatened to sneak in when the lights were off, I would reach for that journal. I didn’t let the darkness win.

I filled the pages instead. Because now, I had something worth holding on for. And that changed everything.

‘You don’t know me yet,’ I wrote one evening, ‘but I promise I’m trying to become someone worth knowing.’

Some pages were full of hope. Others were just lists. What I’ve eaten, how I felt, what songs had played at the market that morning. It helped me feel less alone.

One night, I curled up in the armchair by the window. The bakery lights below flickered off, and the scent of sugar faded into the sea breeze. I had a blanket over my lap and a lukewarm mug of tea by my side.

Then it happened, a kick. It felt real, and sharp. Not just a flutter, not just a maybe. I froze, my hand pressed gently over my belly.

“Hi,” I whispered. “You’re really in there, huh?” Another kick and just like that, my heart cracked open. A tear slipped down my cheek, then another.

“I’ll make sure you never feel like you have to earn love,” I said softly. “Not like I did.”

I didn’t dare to say his name out loud, but Landon lived in the spaces I didn’t talk about. In the moments I edited out of my stories. In all of the silences.

Like the time I spent hours preparing a surprise dinner, his favorite, with candles and music and everything. He came home late back then, took one look, and said, “Not tonight. I have calls.”

I didn’t cry even after that. I just cleaned up, alone.

Or the day I told him I was tired of being treated like an accessory and he just said, “Then stop acting like one.”

So I did. I stopped trying altogether.

That version of me, the one who waited, who begged, who stayed—she was gone. Now, it was just me and our baby. My baby. Even though a life that wasn’t big, but was finally mine.

After I wiped my face, I picked up the journal again.

‘Tonight you kicked so hard I almost spilled my tea,’ I wrote. ‘I’m not scared of being a mom. I’m scared of failing you. Of letting the wrong people near you. But I’m trying. I really am.’

There was a knock at the window, a soft tap from the wind. Still, I looked out, half-expecting a ghost. But it was only the night. I leaned back, hand still on my stomach.

“I love you,” I whispered. “You don’t even have to try.”

For the first time in years, I didn’t need anyone to say it back.