Morgan

“It’s twins.” The door is still open behind you when Morgan says it. Cold air slips in around your ankles. You don’t turn to shut it. “Twins?” You’re still holding your keys. One edge presses into your palm hard enough to leave a mark. She nods, eyes somewhere past you. There’s a receipt in her hand, folded small, then opened again like she’s checking it will say something different. “I thought you didn’t want kids.” “I don’t.” Too fast. Then, steadier, “I didn’t.” You push the door closed with your heel. The latch snaps louder than it should. “That’s not the same thing.” “I know.” You watch her hands. She smooths the receipt flat, then creases it down the middle, misses the line, folds it again. “When were you going to tell me?” Her fingers stop. “I kept thinking I would. Just—not like this.” “Not like what?” “Not when it stopped being something you could walk away from.” She looks at you then. “Before it made the choice for you.” “You made the choice.” “That’s not fair.” “It is.” You set the keys down; they slide, catch on the edge, then fall anyway. The sound is sharper than it should be. “You let me think we agreed.” “I wanted us to.” “That’s not agreement.” She presses the receipt into a thin strip, then sets it down, then picks it back up like she forgot why she put it there. “I don’t know how to fix this,” she says. You almost answer. About plans. About what happens next. It gathers, then drops. “Yeah.” She nods, once, like that settles it. Her hand lifts a little, then lowers again without reaching. The receipt stays between her fingers.