And waited.
Day 14 - The Test
I didn’t sleep.
Not really.
I’d been lying in bed since midnight, staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows shift as cars passed on the street outside. Every time I closed my eyes, my mind started calculating—fourteen days since transfer, implantation window closed three days ago, hCG levels should be detectable by now if it worked, if it took, if my body did what it was supposed to do.
At 4:47 AM, I gave up pretending.
I threw back the covers and padded barefoot down the hallway to the bathroom, the old floorboards creaking under my weight. The house was silent except for Mama’s soft snoring from her bedroom and the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. I closed the bathroom door as quietly as I could and flipped on the light. The fluorescent bulb flickered twice before catching, flooding the small space with harsh white light that made me squint.
The pregnancy tests were in the cabinet under the sink, tucked behind the extra toilet paper and cleaning supplies where Mama wouldn’t accidentally find them. I’d bought a three-pack at Walgreens two days ago, paid cash, avoided eye contact with the cashier like I was buying something illegal. Now I pulled the box out and stared at it, my hands already shaking.
Early Detection. Results 6 Days Sooner.
I tore open the box. Pulled out the first test. Read the instructions even though I’d already memorized them, even though I’d watched three YouTube videos and read a dozen forum posts about how to take a pregnancy test correctly, how to avoid false negatives, and how to interpret faint lines.
The instructions were simple: Remove cap. Hold stick in urine stream for five seconds. Replace cap. Wait three minutes.
Three minutes.
I could do three minutes.
I sat on the toilet and unwrapped the test with trembling fingers. The plastic was cool and smooth, clinical in a waythat made my stomach twist. I held it in the stream like the instructions said, counting in my head—one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi, five Mississippi—then capped it and set it on the edge of the sink.
The digital clock on my phone read 4:52 AM.
Three minutes.
I washed my hands. Dried them on the towel hanging by the door. Sat on the closed toilet lid because my legs felt unsteady. The bathroom tile was cold under my bare feet. I pressed my toes against it, focusing on the sensation, trying to ground myself in something real and immediate instead of the spiraling anxiety building in my chest.
One minute.
I stared at the test on the sink. From this angle, I couldn’t see the result window yet. Just the white plastic casing and the pink cap. It looked so small. So insignificant. Like it shouldn’t have the power to change everything.
But it did.
Two minutes.
My phone buzzed. I grabbed it too fast, nearly dropped it. A text from Saroya:You up?
I didn’t respond. Couldn’t. My throat felt tight and my hands were shaking worse now. I couldn’t think about anything except the test on the sink and the seconds ticking by and the fact that in one more minute, I’d know.
I’d know if the last two weeks of waiting and hoping and obsessing had been for something.
I’d know if my body had done what it was supposed to do.
I’d know if I was still worth $250,000 or if I’d just become another failed candidate in Amai Landry’s search for a surrogate who could actually deliver.
Three minutes.
I stood up. My legs felt like water. I picked up the test with both hands because I didn’t trust myself to hold it steady with just one. Turned it over. Looked at the result window.
One line.
Pink and clear and unmistakable in the control section.
