I glance down again, my hand still there without me consciously putting it back.
I’m forty-three. I’ve spent years assuming that door was quietly closing while I was busy getting on with things. And now, naturally, it’s swung back open without asking my permission.
I think about my life as it actually is. Not the worst version. Not the fantasy one. The real one. A job that pays the bills. A bit of savings. A body that, against the odds, is still capable of surprising me. Friends who don’t flinch when things get complicated.
Ivy would be in this with spreadsheets and sarcasm. I know that without question. And Geoff… Geoff would panic internally and then do the right thing externally, because that’s how the Corbins are built. Golden Retriever tendencies and all.
I exhale slowly.
“Right,” I say to Pea-Lime. “Here’s the thing.
“I’ve already named you. I’ve already put my hand here. I’m already thinking inweinstead ofme. Which suggests my heart has wandered off ahead of my brain and left it jogging to catch up.”
I don’t love that. I also recognise it.
So I let my brain arrive and join my instincts.
This won’t be easy. It will change everything. It will be exhausting and inconvenient and occasionally terrifying. It will also be something I am, for the first time in my life, finally equipped to try.
That’s the truth of it.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Let’s be sensible about this.”
Not a vow. Not a promise.
Just an agreement between me and Pea-Lime that, if we’re doing this, we’re doing it with eyes open.
I reach for my phone again and open my list.
Lists first.
Feelings can follow when they’ve caught their breath.
The GP surgery smells faintly of disinfectant. The kind that’s meant to reassure you but mostly just reminds you that a lot of people have been quietly miserable here.
I sit on the edge of the chair with my coat folded on my lap, posture calm, expression cooperative. I have already done the emotional gymnastics at home.This is meant to be the factual bit. The tick-box section. Theconfirm and proceedphase.
The confirmation is brisk. A nod. A couple of numbers. A polite click of a keyboard.
“Yes,” the GP says. “You are pregnant.”
I resist the urge to saysurprise. “I thought as much.”
He hums and types for a moment, like he’s warming up.
I take a breath. This is the point. “I’d like to understand my options. All of them.”
I’m proud of how even my voice sounds. Neutral. Adult.
That gets his attention. He swivels slightly in his chair.
“Well,” he says, folding his hands, “given your age, this may be… your only opportunity.”
Ah.
There it is.
I blink once. Slowly. Partly to be polite, partly to stop myself saying something that will definitely get written down in my notes.
