I stop in the entryway and just stare at him.
Usually, when I come home after a twelve-hour shift, he is on the couch with his feet up, drinking a beer. I do the laundry myself the next day since my shift starts at noon.
But right now, he’s just sitting next to piles of stacked clothes. The basket next to him is nearly empty.
What the hell is happening?
And why does he look so… nervous?
My mouth opens before I even register the thought.
“Oh my God,” I blurt. “She’s pregnant.”
Patrick
No. God, no.
“What the fuck, Lore?” I yell, then remember Milo is asleep upstairs and drop my voice to a harsh whisper-shout. “I never slept with her.”
She just shrugs like the whole thing is logical. “Can you blame me?”
“Yes,” I fire back. “Yes, I can blame you for thinking I impregnated another woman.”
She flinches, but I keep going. “Look…” I force a breath in, then another. “Clearly you won’t get over it. I’m guessing you regret saying you would by now.”
She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to. I know my wife.
Lore agrees to everything even when she shouldn’t. Like the time she agreed to watch our neighbor’s Great Dane forone month, and I had to rescue her by claiming I was allergic to dogs. Now we can’t get a dog unless the neighbors move or I die.
Lore finally whispers, “Yeah. I do.”
My chest goes tight. I take her hand, and by some miracle she lets me. I thread her fingers between mine and open my mouth to say-
Only her stomach interrupts us.
It lets out a growl so loud it could challenge the Dane.
Her face goes red. “I’ve only eaten a granola bar and oatmeal.”
My jaw drops. “Lore.”
She cringes like she shouldn’t have admitted it.
That’s it.
I pull her gently toward the kitchen. “My dad sent home sloppy joes.”
She doesn’t argue, which tells me how bad today must’ve been. I sit her down, pour her a glass of juice, and start assembling the food. I’m muttering under my breath the whole time.
“I’m packing you lunch from now on… you’re on your feet all day… what if you passed out and hit your head… and what about the baby…”
I slide the plate toward her when I’m done, but she doesn’t take it. She just stares at me.
“What?” I say, pushing it closer. “Eat.”
She finally drags the plate close but says quietly, “This.”
“What ‘this’?”
