"Very messy," I agree, wiping his face with a damp cloth. He immediately grabs the cloth and adds it to his banana sculpture.
"Perhaps we should consider expanding our search radius," Ursak suggests. "Look beyond the immediate area."
"Or maybe the universe has other plans for us."
I've been feeling strange lately. Tired in a way that eight hours of sleep doesn't touch. Queasy at random moments. Emotional over television commercials featuring puppies. This morning, the smell of Ursak's breakfast tea made me dash to the bathroom.
"Are you feeling well?" Ursak asks, studying my face with concern. "You look pale."
"Just tired. Nimmy's been waking up early."
"Papa! Papa! Look!" Nimmy holds up his banana masterpiece, a vaguely humanoid figure crafted from fruit and cloth.
"Very artistic," Ursak tells him solemnly. "You have real talent."
Nimmy beams and immediately smashes his creation, giggling as banana pieces fly across the kitchen.
"And there goes his destructionist phase," I observe.
But privately, I'm calculating dates in my head. When was my last period? How long has it been since we stopped being quite so careful about protection? The thought that's been lurking in the back of my mind pushes forward, demanding attention.
That afternoon, while Ursak takes Nimmy to the park, I slip out to the pharmacy. The pregnancy test feels like it weighs ten pounds in my shopping basket. The pharmacist doesn't even blink - probably sees desperate-looking women buying these things all the time.
Back home, I peer at the unopened box for twenty minutes before working up the courage. Two pink lines. Unmistakable, definitive, life-changing pink lines.
Holy shit.
I'm pregnant. With Ursak's baby. A half-orc, half-human baby.
The front door slams as they return from the park, Nimmy's excited chatter filling the house. I slip the test into a small gift box I'd been saving for Christmas, wrap it hastily, and shove it into my dresser drawer.
"Mama Maya! Swings! Big swings!" Nimmy barrels into our bedroom, snow still clinging to his winter coat.
"Did you have fun?"
"Fun! Cold! Hungry!"
"Let's get you some lunch then."
I manage to act normal through the rest of the afternoon, though every time I look at Ursak I want to blurt out the news.Instead, I file it away for Christmas morning. Three weeks. I can keep this secret for three weeks.
Christmas morning arriveswith Nimmy launching himself onto our bed at five-thirty, fully dressed and vibrating with excitement.
"Presents! Presents! Tree presents!"
"The presents will still be there in a few hours," Ursak mumbles into his pillow.
"Now! Present now!"
There's no arguing with toddler logic. We shuffle downstairs in our pajamas, Nimmy racing ahead to dive under the Christmas tree. Watching him tear through wrapping paper with gleeful abandon makes the early wake-up call worthwhile.
Ursak gives me a beautiful leather journal embossed with my initials. I give him a first edition of Beowulf in Old English that I found at an estate sale. We take turns helping Nimmy open his mountain of packages - building blocks, picture books, stuffed animals, and a wooden train set that immediately becomes his obsession.
"One more," I tell Ursak, producing the small wrapped box from behind the tree.
"I thought we agreed on a spending limit."
"This one's free."
