Unplanned Promises: How Parenthood Made Us Fall in Love

“You have to be kidding me,” I whispered, staring at the two pink lines on the bathroom counter. My hands shook so badly I thought I might drop the test. There was a party going on in the living room — our college reunion, supposedly a night to relive old memories, not make new ones that would haunt me.

I heard Brandon’s laugh through the half-open door, louder than usual, and my heart hammered in my chest. I barely knew him. Sure, we’d had a couple of classes together, and we’d laughed at the same jokes once or twice. But that night, after too many drinks and too much nostalgia, we’d both made a mistake. And now I was staring at nine months — no, a lifetime — of consequences.

I called my mom first. She cried. Not the happy kind of crying. Brandon’s parents, when we finally told them, were even less subtle. His dad’s voice thundered through the phone: “You’re going to do the right thing, son. You’re going to marry her.”

Brandon and I met up at the Waffle House two days later, both of us looking like we hadn’t slept. The fluorescent lights made everything feel harsher.

“Look, Hailey, I want to help. But I don’t want to force you into anything,” he said, stirring his coffee so hard it almost sloshed over the rim.

“My parents are… they’re old school. They want a wedding,” I mumbled, staring at the Formica table. “I don’t know what I want. I barely know you.”

He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Guess we’ll get to know each other real quick, huh?”

I hated him a little for making a joke. I hated myself for wanting to laugh.

Our engagement was awkward. We picked out rings at a strip mall jewelry store, both trying to play it cool for the sales clerk. Our parents planned the wedding in a flurry of phone calls, arguing about flowers and venues while Brandon and I sat silently on the couch, scrolling through our phones. I was sick every morning, not just from the pregnancy. The thought of standing in front of our friends and family, pretending to be in love, made my stomach clench.

The wedding was small, just family and a handful of college friends who looked at us with pity or curiosity. Brandon’s hands were cold and clammy when he slid the ring onto my finger. We kissed, and it felt like a lie.

We moved into a tiny apartment outside Columbus, Ohio, because it was what we could afford. Our schedules clashed — I was finishing my student teaching, he was working night shifts at the loading dock. The only time we really saw each other was over cold pizza and reruns of The Office.

There were fights, of course. Big ones, about money. Small ones, about whose turn it was to take out the trash. Sometimes, I’d find myself crying in the bathroom, the same one where I’d first seen those pink lines, wondering if I’d ruined both our lives.

And then came Emma. She arrived on a Tuesday afternoon, screaming her way into the world. Brandon held my hand through the whole thing, even when I yelled at him to shut up, even when I sobbed that I couldn’t do it. He never let go. Later, when the nurse placed Emma in my arms, Brandon stared at her like she’d hung the moon. I saw tears in his eyes — the first time I’d ever seen him cry.

The first few weeks were a blur of sleepless nights, dirty bottles, and panic attacks. But something shifted between us. One night, after Emma had finally drifted off, Brandon made grilled cheese sandwiches at 3 a.m. He sat next to me in the glow of the refrigerator light and said, “We’re not so bad at this, you know.”

I laughed, and this time it wasn’t forced. “We’re a mess, but yeah. Maybe we’re not so bad.”

We started talking more — real conversations, not just about bills or baby schedules. Brandon told me about his fears, about his parents’ expectations, about how lost he felt sometimes. I told him about my dreams of teaching, about how scared I was that I’d failed before I’d even started.

Slowly, the walls came down. Brandon started leaving sticky notes on the fridge: “You got this, superstar!” “Emma and I love you.” One night, he surprised me by showing up at my classroom with takeout and a bouquet of wildflowers he’d picked himself. He wasn’t a romantic guy, but he was trying. I started to notice the small things he did — the way he’d check on Emma before bed, the way he’d squeeze my hand when he thought I wasn’t looking.

One evening, as we watched Emma try to wobble across the living room, Brandon turned to me. “I never thought I’d love you. Not like this.”

My eyes filled with tears. “Me neither,” I whispered. “But I do. I really do.”

Our marriage wasn’t perfect. There were still days when I wanted to walk out, when the weight of everything felt too much. But we learned to lean on each other, to fight for each other instead of with each other. We found little rituals — Sunday pancakes, movie nights, walks in the park. We built something real, brick by brick, out of the shambles of our first mistakes.

Sometimes, when I look at Brandon chasing Emma around the yard, I wonder how different my life would’ve been if I’d never taken that test, never made that call, never said yes to a marriage I didn’t want. But then I watch Brandon scoop Emma into his arms, see the way he looks at me, and I know that life’s greatest joys often come from its biggest surprises.

Did we choose this life, or did it choose us? And if you find love in the unlikeliest of places, does it make it any less real?