Emma's pregnant.
The thought should terrify me. We never discussed kids. Never made plans. Never even had the "do we want this someday" conversation. We've been married for years and perfectly happy with just us.
But sitting in my car, looking at this list, I feel something else entirely.
Hope. Excitement. A weird fluttery thing in my chest that might be joy.
I'm ninety percent sure my wife is pregnant.
And she's terrified to tell me.
That's the part that hurts. Emma's carrying this alone—the knowledge, the fear, the decisions. She's avoiding her brothers because she can't handle one more thing on her plate. She's probably drowning in work, panicking about logistics, and convincing herself she has to handle everything by herself.
Classic Emma.
I could confront her. Ask her directly. But that would be pushing. And pushing Emma Dawson never works. She's like a cat—you have to let her come to you on her own terms. Otherwise she just digs in her heels and gets more stubborn. The kid would be graduating college before she told me she was pregnant.
No, I need to be subtle. Supportive. Make it safe for her to tell me when she's ready.
I start the car and head home, already planning.
Our house is quiet when I arrive. Emma's not home yet—probably still at the office working her usual twelve-hour day. I have time.
I head to the kitchen and start pulling out ingredients. Chicken breast. White rice. Plain vegetables. The blandest, most pregnancy-safe meal I can make.
Nothing with strong smells. Nothing that might trigger nausea. Just simple, gentle food that won't upset her stomach.
I'm halfway through cooking when I hear the front door open.
"Miles?" Emma's voice sounds tired.
"Kitchen," I call back.
She appears in the doorway looking exactly like Ryan described—exhausted and beautiful, her blazer rumpled, her hair escaping its professional bun. She's carrying more grocery bags.
And she won't meet my eyes.
"You're home early," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "Everything okay?"
"Everything's great!" Her voice is too bright. "Just hungry!"
She sets the bags on the counter with slightly too much force. I glance at them and have to bite back a smile.
Pickle jars. More pickle jars. And another massive container of peanut butter.
I pick up one of the pickle jars, examining the label like I'm conducting a professional wine review. Then the second jar. The third jar.
"That's a lot more pickles, Em."
"I really like pickles." Her chin lifts slightly—that defensive gesture she makes when she knows she's being ridiculous but refuses to back down.
There it is. The confirmation I needed. Emma doesn't make strange food choices. She doesn't buy three jars of pickles on a random evening. She doesn't eat peanut butter and pickle sandwiches at eleven PM.
Unless she's pregnant.
I turn back to the stove, add the bland chicken and rice to plates, and start assembling another strange sandwich. Peanut butter on white bread. Pickle slices arranged in neat rows.
Emma sits at the kitchen table, watching me with an expression I can't fully read.
