Rebirth: Love me Again
Chapter 359: Pregnant and Pampered (Too Much)

Chapter 359: Pregnant and Pampered (Too Much)

[EVE]

If there was one thing I learned about pregnancy in the first trimester, it was this: nausea could strike with the accuracy of a ninja and the force of a truck.

But the real shocker wasn’t the pregnancy.

It was my family’s reaction to it.

The moment I told them—officially told them—chaos broke out.

And not the bad kind. The overwhelming, dramatic, "we’re taking care of you like you’re the last panda on Earth" kind.

Dad built me a "pregnancy throne" in the living room. I’m not joking. It was my usual armchair, but now it was raised a few inches off the ground, covered in three layers of memory foam, and surrounded by an absurd number of strategically placed pillows.

I looked like a Roman empress who had just declared war on standing.

"Pregnant women shouldn’t sit on regular chairs," he declared. "Their backs! Their hips! Their sacred tailbones!"

I wanted to roll my eyes, but I was also ten seconds away from crying because the chair was ridiculously comfortable, and I might have hugged him.

Mom, of course, went full-on herbal apothecary mode. Every morning began with her handing me a steaming mug of something that "smelled like health" and tasted like betrayal.

"It’s ginger, chamomile, and a hint of mint leaf," she’d say proudly.

"It’s death in liquid form," I’d mutter, gagging.

She started every sentence with, "Back when I was pregnant with you," and ended it with something terrifying, like, "—and that’s how I fainted in the middle of a grocery aisle."

Then came my brothers.

Oh God.

Dean was the worst—no, actually, Damien was—wait, no, Dante. All of them. Equally dramatic. Equally unhelpful.

Dean banned me from touching anything heavier than a cotton ball. I once tried to pick up a small grocery bag and he gasped like I was lifting a car engine.

"ARE YOU INSANE?!" he yelled, yanking the bag from my hand. "You’re pregnant, not invincible!"

"It’s literally a loaf of bread and a banana," I deadpanned.

Damien installed a whiteboard in the kitchen labeled "EVE’S CRAVINGS – URGENT!" with a little bell beside it.

Whenever I wrote something down—say, mangoes at 2 AM—he would storm out of the house like a man on a military mission.

He once returned with six types of mangoes and a lecture on glycemic index.

Dante, being the doctor, was the only one who had any actual knowledge—but unfortunately, he used it like a weapon.

"Your ankles are slightly swollen. You’re retaining water," he announced at dinner one evening.

"Thank you, Dante. That’s exactly the confidence boost I needed before dessert," I muttered.

He blinked. "You shouldn’t be having dessert."

I blinked back. "You want to keep your eyebrows?"

Needless to say, he handed me the chocolate cake with both eyebrows intact.

But even with all the chaos, the hovering, the unsolicited advice and the pregnancy throne that looked suspiciously like a gaming chair with blankets—it was . . . perfect. Ridiculous. Over-the-top. And perfect.

They doted on me in the most absurd ways, and despite all the teasing, it was the kind of love I didn’t know I needed.

Every day, someone checked in. My mom kissed my forehead like it was sacred. My dad would whisper to my belly when he thought I was asleep.

Dean tried (and failed) to learn how to knit baby socks from a YouTube tutorial, and Damien downloaded three pregnancy tracker apps to stay "informed." Dante printed a week-by-week fetal development chart and hung it on the fridge like it was an important mission briefing.

And when I cried because my pants didn’t fit or because a cereal commercial made me emotional (WHY DID THE BEAR LOOK SO LONELY), no one laughed.

Well, okay—Dean laughed. But only a little.

Instead, they listened. They held me. They stayed up with me when I couldn’t sleep.

They made me laugh when I needed it most.

And through all the chaos and hormones and weird cravings (peanut butter and pickles, don’t judge me), I realized something beautiful: this baby was coming into a world already overflowing with love.

A chaotic, hilarious, overprotective kind of love—but love all the same.

And honestly?

That’s the best kind.

Of course, the fun didn’t stop at home.

Once the neighbors found out I was pregnant, I became something of a local legend.

Mrs. Santiago from next door knitted me a hat for the baby . . . and one for me. Both were the same size.

When I gently pointed this out, she patted my head and said, "Pregnant heads swell with wisdom, hija. Wear it with pride."

One afternoon, my dad announced that we’d be having a "baby preparedness drill."

"Like a fire drill?" I asked suspiciously.

"Exactly," he beamed.

Ten minutes later, Dean came rushing down the stairs holding a stuffed animal wrapped in a towel, screaming, "She’s crowning! She’s crowning!"

Damien tripped over the hallway rug and dropped the emergency diaper bag.

Dante sat calmly on the couch sipping tea, muttering, "None of you are qualified for anything."

My mom just watched the whole scene unfold with the quiet despair of a woman who had raised five of us and still had hope.

Later that evening, when the baby started kicking, I called everyone into the room.

"Okay, feel this," I said, guiding their hands to my stomach.

Dean jumped back like he’d touched lava. "Oh my God, it moved. It moved! It’s alive in there!"

Damien rolled his eyes. "It’s a baby, not a xenomorph."

Dante blinked. "Movement is good. Very good. You should note the frequency." _{fre\e(w)ebn ov.e l\. co.m}

I just lay there, laughing. Truly laughing, not the polite kind—big, ugly, happy snorts that made my belly bounce and the baby kick again.

It wasn’t perfect.

It was loud and insane and filled with unsolicited mango deliveries and daily "prenatal checkups" by amateurs.

But it was mine.

And in the middle of all that chaos, I’d never felt more safe . . . and more loved.

By the time the third trimester rolled in, I had accepted a new truth: I no longer moved—I waddled. Like a tired penguin.

And my family? Oh, they didn’t miss the chance to remind me.