Skin Shift
Copyright© 2026 by Kate Evergreen
Chapter 9: Pregnancy
The weeks after the wedding are a blur of happiness and hard work. The program continues to grow, expanding to new floors, training new nurses, touching new lives. Aris and I work side by side, our partnership deepening with each passing day. We’re building something real together, not just a program, but a life.
And then, on a quiet Tuesday morning, I discover I’m pregnant.
I’m standing in my bathroom, staring at the pregnancy test in my hands. Two pink lines. Positive. I feel my heart start to race, a surge of emotions washing over me: fear, joy, hope, terror.
You’re pregnant.
Yes.
After everything you’ve been through.
Yes.
After losing Mark, Ella, Sam.
Yes.
Are you ready?
I look at my reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back is different from the woman who walked into West Valley Medical Center four months ago. She’s stronger. More present. More alive. And she’s going to be a mother again.
I don’t know if I’m ready, I think. But I’m going to find out.
I walk to the bedroom, where Aris is still asleep, his arm draped across the space where I’d been. I sit on the edge of the bed and touch his shoulder.
“Aris,” I whisper. “Wake up.”
He stirs, his eyes fluttering open. “Nicola? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” I take his hand. “I’m pregnant.”
He stares at me, his eyes wide. “What?”
“Pregnant. I’m pregnant.”
He sits up, his face a mixture of shock and joy. “Is it true?”
“Yes.” I squeeze his hand. “It’s true.”
He pulls me into his arms, holding me tight. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it.”
“Neither can I.” I laugh, tears streaming down my face. “But it’s happening. We’re having a baby.”
He pulls back and looks at me, his eyes shining with tears. “I love you, Nicola. I love you so much.”
“I love you too.”
The next few weeks are a blur of doctor’s appointments and preparations. The pregnancy is progressing well, the baby healthy and strong. But I can’t shake the fear that something will go wrong.
The last time you were pregnant, you lost them.
Yes.
You lost Mark. You lost Ella. You lost Sam.
Yes.
What if it happens again?
I don’t have an answer. I can’t promise it won’t. All I can do is be present, be honest, be real.
I continue working through the pregnancy. The program is thriving, the hospital is supportive, the staff is excited. I move through my rounds, doing my work, being present. My body is changing, growing, expanding, becoming something new.
The patients love it. They call me “the barefoot goddess” and “the naked angel.” I laugh. I’m not an angel. I’m just a nurse. A nurse who’s going to be a mother.
Frank is the first one I tell.
“I’m pregnant,” I say, sitting on the edge of his bed.
He looks at me, his eyes crinkling with joy. “That’s wonderful, Nicola. That’s truly wonderful.”
“I’m scared,” I admit. “I’m so scared.”
“I know you are.” He takes my hand. “But you’re also brave. You’ve been through so much, and you’ve survived. You’re going to survive this too.”
“Thank you, Frank.”
“Don’t thank me.” He squeezes my hand. “Just keep being brave.”
Bria is the second one I tell.
“Pregnant?” she shrieks, hugging me tight. “That’s amazing! I’m going to be an aunt!”
“An aunt?”
“Well, not really. But close enough.” She grins. “I’m going to spoil this rotten baby.”
The days pass. The pregnancy progresses. I continue working, continue training, and continue being present. The clarity is stronger than ever, the connection deeper than ever.
Aris is beside me every step of the way. He comes to every appointment, holds my hand through every ultrasound, rubs my back when the morning sickness hits. He’s patient, loving, and present.
“You’re going to be a wonderful father,” I tell him one night.
“I’m going to try,” he says. “I’m going to be present. I’m going to be honest. I’m going to be real.”
“You already are.”
The months pass. My belly grows. The baby kicks. I feel more alive than I’ve ever felt.
One night, as I’m walking through the hospital, I feel a familiar sensation. The first contraction. I stop in my tracks, my hand going to my belly.
It’s time.
The baby is coming.
I call Aris. “It’s time,” I say. “The baby is coming.”
“Where are you?” he asks, his voice panicked.
“I’m at the hospital. I’ll meet you in the maternity ward.”
“Don’t move. I’ll be right there.”
The labor is intense but brief. Aris is beside me, holding my hand, his face a mixture of fear and joy. The contractions come faster and stronger, and I push through them, focusing on my breathing, on my presence, on the life that’s about to enter the world.
“You’re doing great,” Aris says. “You’re doing amazing.”
“I can’t,” I gasp. “I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can.” He squeezes my hand. “You’re the strongest person I know. You can do this.”
The baby was born at 3:17 AM. A girl. Perfect and healthy and beautiful.
I hold her in my arms, tears streaming down my face.
“Hello, little one,” I whisper. “Hello.”
Aris is beside me, his hand on my shoulder, his face wet with tears.
“She’s beautiful,” he says. “She’s perfect.”
I look down at the baby in my arms. She’s tiny, fragile, and beautiful. She’s my second chance.
“What should we name her?” I ask.
Aris is silent for a moment. Then he speaks, his voice soft.
“What about Ella?” he says. “After your daughter.”
I feel tears stream down my face. “Ella. Yes.”
“Ella,” I whisper to the baby. “Your name is Ella.”
I hold her close, feeling her warmth against my skin. I’m still naked. I’ve been naked through the whole labor, through the whole birth. It feels right, natural, essential.
“Your mother is a remarkable woman,” Aris says to Ella. “She’s the bravest person I know.”
I lean over and kiss him. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” He looks at me, his eyes shining. “We’re so lucky to have you.”
“No,” I say. “I’m the lucky one.”
The days that follow are a blur of feedings, diaper changes, and sleepless nights. But I don’t mind. I’m tired, exhausted, overwhelmed. But I’m also happy. Truly, completely happy.
Aris is a wonderful father, patient, loving, and present. He holds Ella for hours, singing to her, talking to her, loving her.
“You’re amazing,” I tell him one night.
“I’m just doing what any father would do.”
“No.” I shake my head. “You’re doing more. You’re being present. You’re being real. You’re giving her the gift of your presence.”
He smiles. “I learned from the best.”
I continue working through the early months of motherhood. The program is thriving, the hospital is supportive, the staff is excited. I move through my rounds, doing my work, being present. My body is changing again, softer, rounder, marked by the journey of pregnancy and birth.
The patients love it. “The nursing mother,” they call me. I laugh. I’m just a nurse. A nurse who’s a mother.
Frank is still here. His health is declining, but his spirit is strong. He holds Ella whenever I bring her, his eyes bright with joy.
“She’s beautiful,” he says. “Just like her mother.”
“Thank you, Frank.”
“Don’t thank me.” He squeezes my hand. “Just keep being brave.”
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