“It worked,” I managed to say. My voice sounded strange. Broken and whole at the same time. “Mama, it worked.”
She didn’t say anything. Just came into the bathroom and sat on the floor next to me, her movements slow and careful like she was approaching something fragile. She picked up one of the tests, held it up to the light, and studied the two pink lines.
Then, she pulled me into her arms.
“Thank you, Jesus,” she whispered into my hair. Her voice was thick with tears. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
I buried my face in her shoulder and let myself cry harder. Let myself feel all of it—the relief, the fear, the overwhelmingweight of what this meant. Mama held me tight, one hand rubbing circles on my back the way she used to when I was little and couldn’t sleep.
“I have to call Dr. Beaumont,” I said when I could finally speak again. “I need to—I need to make sure. I need a blood test. I need?—”
“You need to call that man,” Mama interrupted gently.
I pulled back to look at her. “It’s five-thirty in the morning.”
“And?” Mama raised an eyebrow. “You think he’s sleeping? You think he hasn’t been waiting for this call?”
I looked down at my phone. The screen was still lit up, showing 5:34 AM in bright white numbers.
“He’ll want to know,” Mama said. Her voice was firm but not unkind. “Whatever else is going on between you two—and don’t tell me there’s nothing, because I got eyes—he’ll want to know about this.”
My thumb hovered over Amai’s name in my contacts. My heart was still racing, my hands still shaking, and I didn’t know if I could form coherent words if he answered.
But Mama was right.
He’d want to know.
I pressed call.
He answered on the second ring.
“Well?” His voice was rough, like he’d been awake for hours. Like he’d been waiting.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
“Two pink lines,” I whispered.
Silence.
Long enough that I thought maybe the call had dropped. Long enough that I started to panic, started to think maybe I shouldn’t have called, maybe it was too early, maybe?—
“You’re sure?” His voice was different now. Quieter. Careful.
“Three tests.” I looked down at them lined up on the bathroom floor. “All positive.”
Another silence. Then I heard him exhale—a long, shaky breath that sounded like he’d been holding it for weeks.
“Thank you.” His voice cracked on the words. Actually cracked. Like something inside him had broken open. “Truth. Thank you.”
Fresh tears spilled down my cheeks. “I didn’t do anything yet. I just—I took the tests, and they’re positive, but I don’t know if it’ll stick, I don’t know if?—”
“You did everything.” He cut me off, his voice fierce now. Certain. “You went through hell for two weeks. You let them put needles in you. You trusted me when you had no reason to. You dideverything.”
I pressed my free hand against my mouth to muffle the sob that wanted to escape.
“I’m scared,” I admitted. The words came out small and broken. “Amai, I’m so scared. What if I lose it? What if my body can’t…. What if I mess this up?”
“Then we’ll deal with it together.” His voice was steady now. Solid. The kind of steady that felt like an anchor in a storm. “But right now? Right now, you’re pregnant. And that’s enough.”
