I doubt it.
And for the first time in my life, I ain’t afraid to admit it.
She’s right.
The mask is gone.
With her, there’s no bravado, no armour – just me.
Raw. Open. Hers.
The faint patter of rain pulls me towards consciousness; Lottie’ll be sad to see the snow gone. Her mum too. I stretch and reach out instinctively, searching for Tay. But my hand meets only the imprint of her head in the pillow, her warmth already fading from the sheets.
My eyes crack open against the light seeping through the curtains.
The sound ain’t rain.
It’s the ensuite shower.
I check my watch. It’s still early; it’s just the snow outside making the world brighter than the hour. What’s she doing up? And then I think about the night, and guilt nudges me fully awake.
We didn’t stop until the early hours, the thought of her carrying my child feeding a hunger like none other, and I don’t doubt she’s sore.
A sharp, protective ache grips my chest, and I throw the covers back – not to chase her, but to take care of her.
The bathroom is warm with steam when I slip inside, the mirror already fogged over. She’s facing the spray, shoulders relaxed, water coursing down the length of her. I move up behind her, hands sliding around her waist, mouth brushing the curve of her neck.
‘Baby…’ I murmur against her skin.
But she doesn’t melt into me the way she usually does.
And then I see it: the thin ribbon of red snaking towards the drain, vanishing into the polished stone shower tray like it was never there at all.
My hands tighten automatically, my heart falling through the floor. ‘Tay…’
She turns into me, eyes bright and devastated.
‘I’m not pregnant,’ she whispers, voice cracking.
I pull her into my chest, arms tight as her sobs break free. Every instinct screams to shield, to hold, to fix what I can’t. I press my chin to her hair and rock her as the water beats down on us both.
‘I’m being silly,’ she chokes out, ‘I know I am. It’s only been six months but… I just— I feel like something’s wrong. Like maybe… maybe I don’t get to be a mum. Maybe all those years thinking I didn’t want it… maybe my body believed me.’
‘Tay…’ I tilt her face to mine, wiping away the tears even though the water keeps replacing them. ‘You can’t talk your body out of making a baby. And nothing about this makes you silly. You hear me?Nothing.’
She nods, but I can see the doubt in her eyes, feel it in every sob that still wracks her body.
‘Come on, come back to bed,’ I say, gently. ‘Get some sleep. Everything feels heavier when you’re running on empty.’
She lets me turn off the water and wrap her in a towel.
Lets me carry her back to bed and hold her until sleep takes her.
I lie there awake, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding, stomach twisted.
And then I grab my phone.
Is it normal? Six months of trying? Age thirty-eight?
