The counselor at the clinic was named Lena. She did not ask what a good woman would do or which future frightened me most. She asked what support I actually had, what pressures were being applied, and whether I felt safe at home. I told her Dominic had never threatened me. Then I heard myself explain the appointment, the lease email, and the way he kept saying our decision when he meant his. Lena wrote nothing for a moment and let the silence belong to me.

A nurse confirmed the pregnancy and reviewed the choices without trying to brighten or darken any of them. I asked practical questions about timing, health care, work, and continuing the pregnancy alone. I also asked what ending it might involve. Every answer made the situation more real, not easier. By the time I stepped outside, I had not chosen a whole life. I had chosen another appointment with an obstetric practice and a week without anyone demanding an answer.

Dominic had packed two suitcases when I returned. He said staying would look like agreement, and he could not risk being drawn into fatherhood by delay. I told him leaving did not erase his future responsibilities, but I would not bargain with my body to keep him in the apartment. He took his desk lamp, his exam books, and the basil plant we had almost killed twice. At the door, he asked if I wanted him to wait until my next appointment.

I said no because waiting had become another word for pressure. After he left, I called my friend Saira, who managed the community arts center where I taught. I expected comfort. She brought a notebook instead. We listed income, insurance, leave, housing, and the people I could ask for specific help. Halfway down the page, she paused at my emergency contact. Dominic had removed himself through the patient portal that morning. In his place, someone had entered a name I did not recognize.