I don’t mean to look. My head just tilts, like the weight of it’s too much to hold. My eyes land on the first test. Then the second. Then the third.
All three. Same result.
Two lines.
The room sways. I reach for the edge of the tub, miss, and end up curled on my side instead, one arm folded under me, the other splayed against the tile like it might anchor me to the floor.
I can’t breathe past the sound in my ears. A low rush, like wind or blood or memory.
Something cracks loose. Not in the room—inside me.
And suddenly I’m eight again.
“Hold my hand, baby. Don’t look.”
My mother’s voice, sharp and calm. I remember her face slick with sweat, lips pale.
The midwife was yelling. Nothing was going right. It wasn’t how they said it would be.
I was told it would be beautiful. A beginning. A miracle.
But there was blood. So much blood.
Then nothing.
My mother stopped breathing.
My father pulled me out of the room by the arm. Left me in the hallway.
Sirens came later. So did the grief.
I never went back in.
I don’t remember the baby.
Just the sound of the door closing behind me. And how quiet the world was after.
There’s something in my throat now. A keening, silent thing that won’t come out. My body curls tighter.
I don’t hear the door open. I only feel the shadow shift across the tile.
“Nina?”
The voice doesn’t register right away. I think it’s hers, at first. I brace for it—panic, instructions, screaming.
But then a hand touches my shoulder.
“Nina—hey—hey, I’ve got you.”
Callie.
I blink. The lights smear sideways.
She’s kneeling beside me now, hands warm and careful. Her voice low, steady. “Come on. Let’s get you up, okay? You’re okay. I’m here.”
I don’t know how she gets me upright. Just that I’m standing somehow. My pants up and fastened. I’m walking, maybe. Floating.
The couch appears like a hallucination. A mug in my hands. Steam curling from the rim.
