A Cure for Sadness: Emily and Jack’s Story

“Jack, what are we going to do?” I barely recognized my own voice—it trembled, raw and desperate, echoing off the cracked tile walls of the tiny dorm bathroom. The stick trembled in my hand, a pale blue plus sign staring back at me, the verdict simple and absolute. Jack pressed his forehead to the door, his voice muffled but urgent. “Em, open up. Please. We’ll figure this out together.”

I unlocked the door, and there he was, his eyes wide with hope and terror. We stared at each other in silence, the weight of a thousand unspoken words hanging between us. Outside, the world carried on—someone’s music thumped through the wall, laughter floated up from the quad—but in that cramped space, time stopped.

I’d always been the responsible one. My whole life was laid out in neat bullet points: graduate from Northwestern, land a job at a Chicago ad agency, move into a little apartment with exposed brick walls. Jack and I had talked about our future a thousand times, always ending with, “Let’s wait until we have our diplomas.” Now, all of that seemed impossibly far away.

Jack stepped forward, wrapping his arms around me. “We’ll make it work, Em. I promise.”

His words should have comforted me, but instead, my heart pounded with a new fear—what if we couldn’t?

Telling my parents was like stepping into a blizzard. My mom sat rigid on their living room sofa, twisting her hands together. My dad paced, each step punctuating his disappointment. “This isn’t what we wanted for you, Emily.”

I tried to meet my mother’s gaze. “Mom, I know it’s not what you planned, but—”

She cut me off, her voice brittle. “How are you going to finish school? Who’s going to take care of you? Of the baby?”

Jack reached for my hand, and I squeezed it so tightly it hurt. I wanted to scream, to explain that I was scared too—but their disappointment pressed down like a weight. We left in silence, the air thick with words unspoken.

In the weeks that followed, I moved through life like a ghost. Morning sickness made classes a nightmare. My scholarship was suddenly in jeopardy. Jack picked up extra shifts at the campus coffee shop, his textbooks gathering dust. My friends drifted away, not knowing what to say. Even Jack and I, once inseparable, started to fray at the edges.

One night, as rain battered the dorm window, I sat on the floor, cradling my knees. Jack came in, soaked and exhausted. He dropped beside me, shoulders slumped. “I screwed up a chemistry exam,” he said quietly. “I keep thinking… what if we’re not ready for this?”

I stared at him, anger flaring. “Do you think I’m ready? You think I wanted this?”

He looked away. “No. I just… I don’t know how to fix it.”

We sat in silence, the only sound the patter of rain and our uneven breathing. That night, for the first time, I wondered if love was enough.

The months crawled by. My belly grew, a constant reminder of how much had changed. My mom called every few days, her voice softening as the reality settled in. She sent me prenatal vitamins, recipes, advice. My dad stayed distant, but one day, he texted: “Let me know if you need anything.”

Jack and I found a tiny off-campus apartment. It was barely big enough for a bed, let alone a crib, but it was ours. We hung fairy lights in the kitchen and painted the walls a cheerful yellow. Sometimes, we even laughed again.

Then, everything fell apart. Jack’s father was laid off. Jack’s hours at work were cut, and bills piled up. One night, our power was shut off. I sat in the dark, tears streaming down my face. I called my mom, voice cracking: “I can’t do this.”

She drove up the next day, bringing groceries and blankets. As she tucked me in, she whispered, “You’re stronger than you think.”

Jack came home late, his face pale. “I got a second job,” he said. “Nights at the warehouse.”

I wanted to argue, to beg him not to run himself ragged, but I just nodded. We lay together in the dark, our hands resting on my stomach, both of us terrified but holding on.

The baby came early, in the middle of finals week. I felt the first contractions in the library, surrounded by the scent of old books and highlighter ink. Jack sped me to the hospital in his battered Honda, running red lights, whispering, “Hold on, Em, just hold on.”

Hours later, our daughter arrived—tiny, perfect, and screaming. Jack cried as he held her. I looked at her wrinkled face, and for the first time in months, hope bloomed inside me.

The road wasn’t easy. Jack missed his graduation. I took online classes between feedings, piecing my life together one assignment at a time. My parents visited every weekend, slowly thawing to the chaos and joy of our new family. Jack’s dad found a new job and helped us with rent. Small kindnesses stacked up—a neighbor left a casserole, a professor granted an extension. Our friends trickled back, bringing baby clothes and stories from campus.

There were nights we still fought—over money, over exhaustion, over lost dreams. But there was laughter, too. First steps, first words, Jack and I dancing in the kitchen at midnight, our daughter giggling in her high chair.

Now, three years later, I’m finishing my degree. Jack works days, and I take classes at night. Our apartment is still tiny, but it’s filled with warmth and light. Sometimes, I catch my reflection in the window—older, wiser, a little bit battered but still standing.

I think back to that night in the dorm bathroom, to the fear and sadness that threatened to swallow me whole. I know now there’s no magic cure for heartache or disappointment—no pill to swallow, no shortcut to happiness. But sometimes, when life hands you the unexpected, you find strength you never knew you had.

Would I change anything if I could? Maybe. Maybe not. But I wonder—how many of us are just one twist of fate away from a different life? And what would you do if your world changed overnight—would you fight for the life you never planned?