Hunny

Chapter 4: No Name, Just Initials—and One Hell of a Reveal

San Francisco, 1950

E.C. didn’t do poetry. He didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve. He didn’t even have a full name.

Just initials—because that’s exactly what his Momma and Daddy named him. Initials.

To Hunny, that was part of the charm. Mysterious. Masculine. Like a locked box only she had the key to. But a year into their marriage, with fog sweeping under their windows and dreams building in her belly, she stared at those letters and wondered if they could stretch wide enough to hold what came next.

She was pregnant.

And she was terrified.

Not of childbirth—pain never scared her. Not of raising a baby in military housing or making ends meet with ration cards and hand me down onesies. Hunny could handle cracked linoleum and crying at 2 a.m. with one eyelash still perfectly curled.

She feared him. He had never been cruel or harsh in any way, but she knew how he felt about babies.

Because long before they settled into being Mr and Mrs, she’d heard E.C.’s thoughts on babies. He’d said it casually once, over coffee and the Sunday paper, like he was commenting on the weather.

“Babies,” he’d muttered, shaking his head. “They smell bad. They cry all the damn time. You can’t reason with ’em. Now a four-year-old? That’s a person. You can talk to a four-year-old.”

He’d said it with that dry, matter of fact tone he used when he thought he was being perfectly reasonable. Hunny had laughed then, tossing her hair, calling him dramatic. But the words stuck. They clung to her ribs like burrs.

So when her stomach started turning in the mornings, when her dresses tightened across her middle, when the calendar betrayed her—those old words came roaring back.

She tried to tell him a dozen times.

Once while he was shaving, steam fogging the mirror. She opened her mouth, but he nicked his chin and cursed, and the moment slipped away.

Once, while they were walking along the Embarcadero, gulls were screaming overhead. She reached for his hand, ready to say it, but he started talking about a buddy’s newborn who “cried like a busted engine,” and she swallowed the confession whole.

Once, while folding laundry, his white undershirts were warm from the line. She held one against her chest, imagining a tiny one beside it. But then he walked in complaining about a sailor’s baby who’d spit up on his uniform, and her throat closed.

Every time she tried, something stopped her. Or maybe she stopped herself.

Because what if he meant it? What if he really couldn’t stand the thought of a baby? What if he looked at her differently? What if the news didn’t soften him but hardened him?

At night, she lay awake listening to his breathing—steady, calm—while hers fluttered like a trapped bird. She pressed her palm to her belly—still flat, still secret—and whispered promises to the life inside her.

“I’ll protect you,” she murmured. “Even if I have to protect you from him.”

The fear grew until it lived in her bones. Until it changed the way she moved, the way she breathed, the way she looked at him across the dinner table.

And then came the night she broke.

She sobbed so violently, and that, paired with how sick she had been lately, made him think that maybe she was dying.

E.C. dropped his spoon. Grabbed her arms. “Is it your heart? Your stomach? Talk to me!”

She tried to speak, but the words tangled behind her teeth. Tears streamed down, uncontrolled. Her body shook.

“I’m pregnant,” she gasped. “I didn’t mean to. I mean—I didn’t plan—I just—”

Silence.

And then… laughter.

Not cruel. Not distant. Just baffled, breathless relief.

“Jesus, Hunny,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers. “I thought you were dying.”

He smiled. That small smile. That quiet one, he never gave to anyone else.

And just like that—her fear loosened.

The Morning After

He didn’t say much that night after the laughter faded. He held her, stroked her hair, whispered that she scared ten years off his life. But he didn’t say anything about the baby. Not really. Not the way she needed.

So Hunny lay awake long after he fell asleep, wondering if he was pretending to be calm. Wondering if he was imagining diapers and midnight feedings and the sour milk smell he always complained about. Wondering if he was imagining escape.

But morning came, and with it a strange stillness.

E.C. woke before dawn, as always. Shaved. Buttoned his uniform. Poured his coffee. Routine was his religion.

Then he did something he never did.

He sat beside her on the bed.

“You’re really pregnant,” he said softly.

She nodded, bracing.

“I always said I didn’t want a baby. You know that.”

Her heart clenched.

“But…” He exhaled, long and slow. “I didn’t know it would feel like this.”

“Like what?” she whispered.

He looked at her belly—still flat, still secret—and something flickered across his face. Not fear. Not annoyance. Something quieter.

“Like I want to protect something I can’t even see yet.”

Hunny blinked. That wasn’t the man who complained about spit-up and diapers. That was someone else. Someone she hadn’t met yet.

He reached out, hesitated, then placed his hand on her stomach. His palm was warm. His touch was careful, reverent.

“I don’t know how to be a father,” he admitted. “But I’ll figure it out.”

“You don’t have to know everything,” she said. “Just… be here.”

“I’m here,” he said simply.

And he was.

Hunny Steps Into Her Power

The next morning, Hunny woke up different.

She still wore sass on her hips and lipstick on her coffee mug, but now there was something more. Her belly, still flat, felt like prophecy. She didn’t hide it. She highlighted it. Every dress cinched tight. Every step turned into a sashay, like she was walking a runway of redemption.

Other Navy wives murmured.

“Isn’t she a little… showy?”

“She thinks she’s glamorous or something.”

“She should act humbly.”

But Hunny didn’t do humble.

She did radiant.

Her pregnancy wasn’t a problem. It wasn’t a secret. It was a badge of honor stitched in silk and stubbornness. She shopped for dresses with boldness. She rubbed her belly in public like it held royalty. Her child wouldn’t inherit shame—not from her.

Once, at a non-comm luncheon, a woman leaned over and said, “We usually cover up when we’re… expecting. Just to keep it modest.”

Hunny looked her straight in the eye. Smiled and winked. The wink said, “I got ya, but you just hide and watch me show everyone how to bring a child into this world with style!”

Her mornings smelled like cinnamon and courage.

Her nights hummed with lullabies she hadn’t written yet.

She didn’t know if the world would be kind to her child. But she would teach this child—girl or boy—to walk with shoulders back, head high, and soul blazing.

Because the child was hers.

And that meant the world had fair warning.

The First Kick

By the time her belly rounded, E.C. had settled into a quiet, steady acceptance. He didn’t gush. He didn’t fuss. But he came home earlier. He fixed things without being asked. He lingered when she talked about the baby, even if he didn’t say much back.

One evening, late summer light spilling through the blinds, Hunny sat on the couch with her feet propped up. The baby had been fluttering all day—little whispers of movement, like bubbles rising.

Then suddenly, a sharp thump from inside.

She gasped.

E.C. looked up from the newspaper. “What? You alright?”

“Come here,” she said, breathless.

He hesitated—because of course he did—but he set the paper aside and crossed the room.

“Give me your hand.”

He placed his palm on her belly, stiff at first, like he was touching something fragile or forbidden.

They waited.

Another kick. Stronger this time.

E.C. jerked his hand back. “What the—”

Hunny laughed. “That’s the baby.”

He stared at her stomach like it had just spoken English.

“That came from in there?”

“Yes, E.C. Where else would it come from?”

He put his hand back, slower this time. The baby kicked again, right against his palm.

And something happened to his face—something unguarded, unarmored. His eyes softened. His mouth parted just slightly. He looked like a man seeing a miracle he didn’t know he believed in.

“That’s… ours?” he whispered.

Hunny nodded.

He kept his hand there long after the kicking stopped. Long after the room went quiet. Long after he realized he was holding his breath.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost reverent.

“I think I get it now.”

And Hunny, watching him, knew he meant it.

Not that he suddenly loved babies. Not that he’d stop complaining about diapers or spit up or the smell.

But he loved this one.

This child.

This tiny force of nature who had just introduced itself with a well placed kick.

And that was enough.