3
Papers rustled. My chair squeaked as I leaned back, trying to relax. My advisor, Professor Courtney Morales, lifted her mug and took a sip of decaffeinated coffee.
Finally she looked up. “This is strong work, Tyler. I’m very impressed.”
I couldn’t hide my relieved exhale, and she smiled a little, shifting in her chair with a small wince. She was in her early forties, black and beautiful with a gorgeous halo of obsidian, corkscrew curls—and also nine months pregnant. She tapped her fingers idly on the firm swell of her stomach as she looked down at the last fifty pages of my thesis.
I could see a few marks here and there—her penned-in notes and suggestions—but nothing insane. Could this mean that I wouldn’t have any major revisions before my defense? Could I be…done?
Professor Morale
