Who said fate doesn't knock twice?

Summary: A very different abortion storyline.

Disclaimer: I don't own anyone but seeing as Josh isn't playing with them anymore I feel I'm allowed to

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She's baaaaack!

And rather nervously (because although there may not be a quantity of OC fics on these days there is damn good quality) offering up an old story, newly written/rewritten.

I have some very strange ideas. In this case I was struck when watching Kirsten and Theresa at the end of season one with the premise that what if 'sometimes things just happen' not twenty years ago but less than two!

You know my love of all things abortion storyline; this is one of my rather different ones which I just had to get up before someone else thinks of it. It's not completely finished but I will try my best to get it done before long.

Enjoy my pretties

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October/November

Ryan came to us in early July that summer. It was a Friday, the night before the Fashion show held annually on the second weekend of July. For as long as I can remember it's been the Fashion Show, a non-black-tie event and then Cotillion on the last weekend of the month. These days it feels like Ryan has been with us forever, I doubt if Seth or even Sandy could pinpoint the date without looking it up. But I have other reasons for remembering.

My story starts long before the balmy evening that changed our lives. It could have been very different night.

Where does it start?
With my childhood; eighteen years in Newport Beach's perfect bubble?

With Berkeley; my escape?

With Sandy; the love of my life? Our first date or the night he made me the happiest girl on earth with a plastic ring or the day I became Kirsten Cohen?

With Seth; my baby, my little boy, my angry young man?

With Ryan; our unexpected second son?

No. This story starts in the October before Ryan arrived.

It was my birthday.

Sandy had taken me to dinner at the Lighthouse and for once Seth had accompanied us with minimal compliant. I suppose I should worry more that he didn't have somewhere better to be on a Saturday night rather than dinner with his parents, but I was just relieved he wasn't out at some party drinking and doing drugs. O.C. kids party hard, everyone knows that, plus I've been there, done it myself, and I'd rather my Seth wasn't a part of that underworld. I've always liked the Lighthouse; it doesn't have the stuffy, Newpsie-packed atmosphere of the Club and Sandy and Seth were just happy to go somewhere they didn't have to wear a tie.

Seth insisted on wearing his new converses, bright red and highly inappropriate. I'm not sure why I remember that. I think we argued over them. Sandy's shirt was peppermint green. I remember wondering, even as I tugged at the material, quite how I'd explain to Rosa why it had lost most of its buttons. The dress I wore was red. (The basis for Seth's argument that he should be able to wear his red shoes) I'd fussed to Sandy as I dressed about whether it was too non-conservative for a woman approaching her forties.

'Approaching being the operative word,' he told me, 'you're only halfway there' he punctuated his words with kisses. 'Well not halfway there in total but halfway in terms of halfway between…'

'Sandy, Sandy, Sandy.' I said laughing, 'I get it.'

He grinned sheepishly. 'You look gorgeous.'

I'd blushed. As I always do when compliments me or when his kisses tickle my neck and the next morning I picked up the dress from our bedroom floor where it had been abandoned, smiling as I thought of the particular present Sandy had given me that necessitated taking off the dress. One of many.

He gave me another present that night I just didn't know it.

That was mid-October and four weeks had passed before I really caught my breath. That time of year is always hectic with contractors, architects, investors and buyers all in a panic to close deals before the holiday season. I'd had the feeling that something was off but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Maybe I was just feeling old, worrying about my son, my marriage, working too hard for too little recognition…

Five weeks. I busied myself with work, constructing endless excuses to quash the niggling anxiety I felt. I shouldn't really be this tired…

Six. That weekend I crashed. Work had been exhausting the past week. Board meetings had dragged on and on, my father playing his role of slave driver extraordinaire to perfection and several irritating investors being subject to the sharp edge of my tongue. In addition I was sure I was sickening for something. Feeling sick and headachy I spent most of it in bed. Pretty much unheard of for Kirsten Cohen.

Sandy was agitated without even knowing I'd been sick both mornings; he'd been out surfing and I wasn't about to tell him. He was haranguing me to go to the doctors as it was and I didn't need some medical professional telling me I needed to cut down on stress. I thrive on stress, it's part of my job.

The following Thursday was Thanksgiving. I don't think I've ever been so glad of a long weekend; usually I hate being away from the office more than two days at a time. But I still wasn't feeling 100 (and certainly not the 110 my dad expected) although of course the official line was 'I'm fine.' 'I'm fine,' to Sandy, to Seth, to anyone who asked, which seemed to be everyone at the moment, their gaze drawn to the mauve smudges beneath my eyes. So I was tired and had the only pale complexion in the whole of California. It didn't mean anything was wrong.

I woke late, roused by the sound of laughter. I would like to say the kitchen was a 'frenzy or activity' but it was more of a shambles. Somebody had obviously just knocked over the carton of cranberries and the bright red beads were rolling haphazardly off the counter and over the floor. The sight made me dizzy but I managed to smile at my two boys and the coffee pot behind them.

'Oh hey sweetie,' Sandy greeted me sheepishly as I dusted flour from his hair. 'We though we'd let you sleep; you looked pretty tired last night.'
I glanced at the oven clock, surprised to see the dial reading 13:37.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd slept that late.

'So mom, taking advantage of the whole vacation lie-in huh? You feeling okay?'

'I'm fine,' I answered, again, resisting the temptation to dust off my son's precious Jew-fro'. 'So what's going on in here?' They began to hastily explain as I picked my way through the berries to the coffee pot and began making a fresh cup.

'Seth stuffed the turkey himself,' Sandy declared proudly, sliding an arm around me and pressing a kiss to my forehead. The comfort was almost tangible.

My son nodded amidst his 'sick' gestures and noises, 'Lucky for me I haven't inherited your defective cooking gene,' he teased, springing to open the oven door so I could fully appreciate the bird that was now browning inside. The scent of half-cooked meat hit me and I felt my stomach turn over. Suddenly the coffee I was drinking tasted like charcoal.

'Looks great,' I choked out, setting down my mug with a shaky hand and heading for the door, desperately praying I wouldn't slip on a stray piece of fruit.

'Kirsten?' Sandy was asking anxiously behind me. 'Kirsten? Are you alright?'

I didn't answer because I wasn't alright. All at once the niggling feeling was a fully fledged panic. To be cliché; everything just fell into place.

There was more to this than just feeling under the weather and if that was the case I really wasn't alright or okay or anything like it.

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Thoughts greatly appreciated!

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