I think back to how I’ve been feeling lately. The exhaustion that won't lift no matter how much I sleep. The way my emotions have been on a roller-coaster, making everything seem too sharp, too raw.
I've been blaming the wedding. The stress.
What if it's not?
I'm moving before the thought fully forms, pulling open drawers, scanning shelves. A pregnancy test has never been part of my routine. It was never something I thought to keep on hand.
Then I remember Tasha's gift.
She made me an engagement gift basket from over a year ago, assembled with her typical mix of love and humor. Champagne, ridiculous lingerie, expensive bath oils. And, tucked among the indulgences like a punchline… a pregnancy test. Along with a note in her loopy handwriting:For when you're ready to make me an auntie. No pressure, but also PRESSURE! :) :)
I'd smiled and tucked the test away, never imagining I'd actually need it anytime soon.
The box is still there, behind hotel toiletries I'll never use. Still sealed. Not yet expired.
I read the instructions twice, then follow them with absolute focus. Setting the test face-down on the counter, I step back to wait for the results.
Three minutes.
I rush into the bedroom to get my phone, setting the timer. Then I move back to the doorway between bathroom and bedroom, leaning against the frame with one arm crossed over my stomach and my other hand gripping my phone.
From here I can see the test on the counter, small and white against gray marble. Three minutes has never felt so long.
I try not to let my mind race ahead. But anticipation builds low in my chest. The possibility of being pregnant takes shape inside me whether I'm ready for it or not.
A baby. Nick's baby. Something we made together in all those nights when his body moved inside mine and I forgot where I ended and he began.
Three minutes.
The timer sounds. I silence it, then I push off the doorframe and cross to the counter where I set down the phone. I pick up the test and peer at the results.
Two pink lines in the display window. Clear. Unmistakable.
Positive.
The breath leaves my body in a rush. I grip the edge of the vanity to steady myself, weight forward, head bowed. For a long moment I just breathe. The marble cool under my palms. The test clutched in my other hand.
I’m pregnant.
When I lift my head, my reflection blurs with tears I didn't expect.
I don't know what I feel. That's the truth of it. Joy is there, bright and fierce, but it's tangled with something else. Fear. Uncertainty. The ache of last night still sitting heavy in my chest.
A baby. Nick's baby.
I want to laugh. I want to cry. I want to run to him and tell him and see his face when he understands what we've made together.
But he's not here. And we're in the middle of something unresolved. The timing of this is either just what we need or the last thing we need, and I genuinely can't guess which.
I set the test on the counter and let my hand drift to my flat stomach. There’s no visible sign of what's happening inside yet, of course. But I know now.
We’re going to have a baby.
A little boy or girl who will have Nick's eyes, maybe. Or my stubbornness. Or some combination neither of us can predict.
This baby is the family I've always wanted. The future we're building together.
I think of my own childhood—the abuse, the shame, the mother who sacrificed everything for me. I think of the awful traumas Nick suffered too, the kinds that left permanent marks inside him and out.
