It was late at night at the airport where I was waiting to be picked up. Red and white lights twinkled from airplanes, from towers. I was tired. With my carry-on in one hand and my work bag in the other, I searched the line of cars as blood soaked through my pad.“Can I go through that?” I asked the TSA agent at the body scanner, three days earlier. “I’m pregnant!”I had just found out I was halfway through the first trimester. I didn’t know what to tell my friends and family, but I loved to share the news with strangers. I’d also told the head of HR at the design agency where I worked. “I think I’ll need an intern... or a boss?” I said.I’d joined the agency as their 28-year-old intern, and not even a year later, I was managing all the brand strategy and copywriting projects mostly on my own, while occasionally reporting to the chief marketing officer.“Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves,” the HR manager answered. I told her I understood. It was the second year of the pandemic, and we’d just come off another wave of layoffs and lost business. I was grateful to be employed, and to have the health insurance that came with it, but my heart hammered in my chest whenever I thought about balancing this job