I’ve lived a pretty privileged life.

I know that. I get it.

Beyond the top-percenter privilege my family’s wealth afforded, there’s that layer of privilege that’s almost become a buzzword: white privilege.

Confession.

Honestly, I used to get defensive about this somewhere inside. I didn’t ask to be born white, or for the intrinsic advantages that come with it living in this country. Hell, at first I didn’t want to believe it was real. It’s much easier to believe you don’t have these immense advantages through accident of birth than to figure out how you can balance the scales.

Grip and I managed to get beyond labels like “privilege” or “minority” or even black and white. Beneath the labels, we found who the other person really is and how they’ll love you in good times and bad. Unconditional love, by definition, doesn’t give a damn about those labels.

Life is the grand equalizer. It has a way of stripping those privileges, rendering them inconsequential. Black, white, rich, poor—when it rains, we all get wet. When it rains, it pours, and sometimes, there is no shelter. I’m in the storm of my life, or rather a storm is in me, brewing in me, growing in me . . . a storm of heartache and tragedy for which there is no privilege, no escape. Not my family’s money. Not my husband’s fame. Not my expensive education or my ambition. The hardest things in life have no escape, no workaround. There is no around, only through. We trudge through those storms. They toss us to and fro. They drench us and change us and strip us of the protection we thought privilege allowed, only to find in the end that we all bleed. We all suffer. We all die.

God, I’m morbid.

And philosophical.

In short, I’m a bore.

But so is this guy droning on for the last forty-five minutes. It makes me appreciate how gifted an orator Dr. Hammond is to make prisons and criminal justice reform sound fascinating, because this guy doesn’t.

Dr. Hammond leans over to whisper in my ear, “Glad I’m not the only one struggling.”

I snap my head around to meet the amusement in his eyes with a chagrined smile.

“Was I that obvious?” I whisper back. “I thought I looked engaged.”

“If that’s engaged,” he says with a grin, “I’d hate to see checked out.”

I pretend to wince.

“I need to work on my fakery. I’m not very good at phony, never have been.”

Grip leans over to see me and Dr. Hammond, who sits to my right.

“What the hell are you two talking about?” he asks. “You do realize this banquet is to honor us, right, Iz?”

“Do you feel honored?” His dark brows crest over the rims of his glasses. “If you honor me by holding me hostage to a bad speech for an hour and serving me rubber chicken, I’ll pass.”

A laugh, along with a little water, snorts through my nose. Grip does his damnedest to chastise me with a look, but he can’t hold back his smile. It’s brighter than I’ve seen in weeks. We needed this—to get out of LA, away from home. We can’t escape the pain. I carry that with me. Even the little joys, like feeling the first kick, will be overshadowed by the inevitable outcome, but something about packing a bag and flying out here to DC lightened things for us some.

Grip and Dr. Hammond are being honored for their work with community bail funds. I wasn’t going to come, but I haven’t seen Dr. Hammond—he keeps telling me to call him Iz, but I’m not quite there yet—in such a long time, only a few times since the wedding. He and Grip haven’t really revisited his views on interracial relationships, but it’s obvious that his perspective has evolved, at least as far as Grip and I are concerned.

An hour later, the three of us are in the hotel suite Grip and I booked. Iz does the honors behind the bar because apparently he put himself through college bartending. He makes a Godfather for him and a vodka martini for Grip. Meanwhile, I’m sipping yet another water.

I miss liquor. I mean, liquor has been good to me in hard times.

Hello, vodka, my old friend.

I take a deep inhale from the bottle behind the bar, and Grip looks at me like Don’t even think about it.

“Just sniffing.” I laugh and reluctantly replace the bottle.

“Since you can’t drink, did you at least make Grip give up weed?” Iz asks from the leather couch in the suite’s sitting room.

“I volunteered, thank you very much.” Grip settles onto the couch facing Iz with his drink in hand. “No easy task in my line of work where you get high walking into every studio.”

“Well Bris has the hardest part.” Iz offers a sympathetic smile. “And then even after delivery you still can’t drink for a while. I assume you’ll breastfeed? Hope it’s not awkward, but I’m in the daddy club. Ain’t no going back after being in the delivery room.”

He chuckles, not noticing that my smile and Grip’s have slowly faded to ash, burned by reality crashing back in on us. I won’t breastfeed. My breasts are the biggest they’ve ever been, and my milk will come in . . . then dry up. It will come and go, just like this baby.

“I’m gonna . . . um . . .” I stand, adjusting the neckline and the hem of the dress I wore to the banquet, keeping my hands busy while my heart recovers. “I’ll be back. Just need to . . .”

I can’t. I speed walk faster than a woman six months pregnant probably should, going back to the bedroom and flopping onto the bed, spread out like a starfish on the luxurious comforter. I stare up at the ceiling, hot tears flowing freely from my eyes and puddling in my ears. The sadness hovers over me. I’ve never lived with a constant promise of heartbreak, and many days, it’s too much. I often slip away to indulge in something my mother-in-law encouraged me to do when she first heard the news about the baby’s fate.

I count my blessings.

It is a well-documented fact that I’m not religious—never have been, and probably never will be, but I understand why some turn to it. I see why it is such a shaping force in Kai’s life. Believing there is something bigger than you must be comforting when you feel small, dwarfed by circumstances out of your control.

Blessing number one: Grip

Blessing number two: Grip.

He’s so good, he counts twice.

Blessing number three: friends and family who love me. Rhyson and Kai and Amir and Shon and Ms. James and even my parents—all have been a source of comfort for us. My mother didn’t understand my decision and urged me to terminate. At first I thought it was the automatic feminist response, that she assumed I was keeping the baby for reasons that I’m not. Pro-choice is just that: I get to choose. It’s my body, which I’ve chosen to share with Grip, and we get to choose. Yes, the path we’re on is painful. To some, unnecessarily painful, but it’s what we’ve decided to do with this body. We have our reasons, and they’re just that: ours. I kept wondering how my mother could be so cold about her own granddaughter. Of course, it took Grip pointing out my mother’s fear for me to understand, noting that her concern for me far outweighed her feelings for this baby. She sees how hard it will be and doesn’t want me to go through what’s ahead.

“You and me, both, Mother,” I mutter.

The ceiling hasn’t changed, but my perspective has . . . some, enough to gather my emotions and go back out. I don’t get to see Dr. Hammond much, and I don’t want to spend the rest of the night in here brooding.

“I’m back.” I settle beside Grip, huddling under his shoulder and taking in his scent. When neither of them responds, I feel the heaviness weighing the air and note their somber faces. I know what they discussed while I was gone.

“You told him?” I ask Grip, vulnerability softening my voice.

We don’t tell everyone. It’s bad enough this shit cloud hangs over the next three months and dampens so many moments that should be reasons to celebrate. We don’t want to field everyone’s awkward questions and responses the whole time, and we also don’t trust everyone to understand.

“Yeah.” Grip scatters a few kisses along my hairline and squeezes my shoulder.

“I’m sorry this happened to you guys.” Iz grimaces. “Dammit, that came out wrong. I can’t believe I’m one of those awkward people who says stupid things at a time like this.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “We’ll be okay.”

I muster a smile to make him feel more at ease, something I find myself doing all the time lately once people know. I didn’t realize how much time and energy you expend making others feel better about how bad things are for you. Things are heavy enough without the burden of their discomfort and pity.

“I know you will. The two of you . . . you guys have something most people never find. My ex and I certainly didn’t have it.” Iz drops his eyes to his drink, rolling the tumbler between his palms before looking back up to split a glance between us. “I’ve never apologized for my views before you married, for the things I thought.”

A gruff laugh struggles past his lips. “The things I said to you, Grip.”

He shakes his head, self-derision twisting his expression.

“I thought I knew. I . . . assumed, I guess, assumed things about you, Bristol. You, too, Grip. You were right. I was no better than the people we call bigots, and I’m sorry. No one could look at the two of you and think your love is based on anything but . . . each other.”

It’s quiet for a moment. In that slice of silent space, I add Iz to my blessings column. That someone so set against us, after seeing us and knowing us, had a change of heart—that’s a little bit of a miracle, and right now, I’ll take every miracle I can get.

“Apology accepted.” Grip takes a sip of his drink. “I just have one question.”

“Sure. Go for it.” A degree of wariness enters Iz’s eyes, like Grip might challenge him on his past beliefs and the way he insulted us before, even if he didn’t think of it that way.

“Well now that you believe a black man could legit fall for a woman who isn’t black,” Grip says, “you gonna break Callie off or what?”

Iz’s eyes stretch wide and then crinkle at the corners with his smile and the laugh that booms from his throat.

“Motherfucker!” He slams his drink down on the glass table. “Technically, Callie is a woman of color, and what I tell you about sticking your nose in my bedroom?”

“As little action as you get, brother,” Grip says, a crooked smile on his full lips, “ain’t nothing to see in there.”

I sip my water and laugh while they rib each other mercilessly for the next hour, until sleep takes me hostage, like it always seems to these days. I don’t even stir until Grip removes my dress and panties. Even walking through this difficult time, Grip manages to make me feel sexy, wanted. He loves my body pregnant, and hides my nightgowns. He is my brightest spot, my greatest blessing. Even now he leans on one elbow, hovering over me protectively, searching my face for sadness, for distress, for anything he can fix in a sea of things he cannot.

“Sorry I fell asleep.” I grab his wrist to look at the crappy watch I won for him years ago. “It’s late. What time does our flight—”

“I delayed it.” He brushes my unruly hair, which started the night in a neat twist, out of my face. “I want you to sleep in. You need rest.”

He disappears under the covers, and I feel his breath, his lips whispering to our daughter. I’ve never asked if he still whispers to her of hope, of possibility. I have no idea how he can when most days I can’t find enough hope for me, much less anyone else.

And then it happens.

A kick. From inside my belly, a jolt, a sign of life.

Grip and I gasp together, a set of startled breaths and broken hearts finding a moment of joy to share. He pulls the comforter back to show the rising curve of my stomach, clearly seen even in the dim light.

“Did you feel that?” His voice is hushed with awe dipped in sorrow.

“Yeah.” I swallow the tears I’m tired of shedding. I don’t want them falling on this moment. I want this one thing we have that couples always want to be free of the shadow of what’s to come.

“It’s incredible.” Grip’s smile, wide and beautiful like a stretch of morning sky, takes my breath. “You’re incredible.”

He bends his head, ghosting his lips over my nose, my eyes, my lips.

“Thank you, Bristol.” His voice comes rougher with emotion.

“Thank me for what?” I caress the warm skin of his neck, the sleek slope of his shoulders, the strength of his arms.

“For carrying our child. I know men say that all the time to their wives, but this . . .” He swallows, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. “God, if it’s too much for you, Bris, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“No.” I shake my head, overcome that he feels guilty, responsible for where we are, between this rock and impossible place. “Grip, no. I wanted this. I mean, of course, not this, not this way, but presented with our choices, this is what I choose. It’s right for us. Baby, please don’t . . .”

When words fail me, I lift my head to kiss him, opening up just enough to sample his love, to savor his concern. I want him to know we’re in this together of my volition. He returns the kiss with a begging passion that flares into the solace we find only in each other—not the storm we’re walking through, but the one we make with our love. It’s an extravagant intimacy reserved for this bed and these bodies, and like I have many nights before, I fall asleep in his arms with the taste of him on my lips. It’s enough.

In the eye of the storm, it’s a blessing.