Chapter 6

Chapter 6

I’d heard that in the first three months of pregnancy, the fetus is unstable and morning sickness can be severe. But I felt fine—I only felt nauseous occasionally, and it wasn’t so bad that I couldn’t eat. The doctor reminded me to keep a cheerful mood and spend more time in nature, since first-time pregnancies often brought anxiety.

But it seemed like Smith Ethan was much more anxious than I was. For example, he covered the entire house with anti-slip carpets, padded all the sharp corners of the furniture with foam, and took complete control of all aspects of my daily life—food, clothing, shelter, and transportation.

At first, I refused. I was pregnant, not disabled. He rolled up his shirt sleeves, revealing his firm forearms, and bent over to pad the corners of the table, huffing and puffing as he worked. I walked over and poked his waist. "You don’t need to pad it this carefully," I said.

Smith Ethan straightened up, pushing his glasses back up his nose. "It’s not enough," he said. "I need to pad the cabinet corners too. And the kitchen counter… forget it—you’re not allowed in the kitchen anymore."

"You’re being too dramatic," I said, nudging him. "You’re treating me like I can’t take care of myself."

He took my hand and kissed it, but I tapped his hand away playfully. "Fine," he said. "You can go into the kitchen, but you’re not allowed to cook, stir-fry, or touch the stove."

I thought that was the most obvious sign of Smith Ethan’s anxiety—but things only got worse later. After the first three months, my nausea and vomiting stopped. Then Smith Ethan started experiencing those symptoms.

At first, I thought he was just tired from work; later, I assumed he’d eaten something bad. We went back and forth like this for a while, and then he even started feeling sleepy all the time. I grew suspicious and began observing him secretly. The more I observed, the more shocked I was—these were exactly the symptoms of early pregnancy!

That evening after work, I deliberately bought a bag of sour grapes. While watching TV, I asked him to wash them for me. "Don’t move," he said. "You’ll get your hands wet." He tucked a pillow behind me, then peeled the grapes one by one and put them in a glass bowl, letting me eat them with a small spoon.

As I watched TV, I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. For every three or four grapes he peeled for me, he’d pop a whole one into his own mouth. Since high school, I’d never seen Smith Ethan eat sour fruit. I bit down on the spoon, watching the TV and trying not to laugh out loud.

"Is it that funny?" he asked, glancing at the TV—where a few variety show stars were yelling and running around. He couldn’t see what was so funny, but he didn’t find it boring at all. He leaned over and kissed my cheek, watching the people on TV act silly with me.

Ever since I’d noticed Smith Ethan’s symptoms, I’d had no time to feel nervous—I was too busy being amused. It might sound heartless, but I really was having fun. Every day, I made a point of going to see him during his lunch break. He thought I was just being clingy due to pregnancy hormones and even offered to move his office to our house, but I refused. I still had some dignity—I didn’t want the whole company to know he was going home early to take care of his "pregnant wife."

Sometimes, when I got off work, I’d find him asleep on the sofa, with documents scattered all over the coffee table. Looking at the dark circles under his eyes, my conscience would kick in, and I’d start to feel sorry for him. Fate had given Smith Ethan a privileged upbringing and a complete family, yet he’d chosen to love someone like me—someone who had nothing. Maybe there really was a plan for everything, hidden in the stars.