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The thought hits so hard, my knees almost buckle.
Safe.
Pregnant isn’t safe. Pregnant is vulnerable. Pregnant is visible. Pregnant is something men can use.
My stomach twists, low and deep, like my body is already answering for me.
The timer beeps.
I freeze. My heart slams so hard, it hurts my ribs. I stare at the wall for one more second, because if I don’t turn around, the result doesn’t exist yet.
Then I turn. The test sits on the sink. White plastic. Small. Ordinary.
And there, like a joke, like a curse, like a miracle…
Two pink lines.
