“We can refinance the house,” I said.
“Claire.”
“We can. My dad said he’d help. And my savings—”
“Claire.” He put his hand over mine. “Let’s just… give it one more year. Naturally. Okay? Just one more year. And if nothing happens, we’ll do it. I promise.”
I didn’t understand why he was hesitating. He wanted a baby as much as I did. I knew he did. I saw the way he looked at kids in the grocery store. I saw him at his cousin’s barbecue, holding his newborn nephew like the baby was made of glass, with this look on his face like his heart was breaking.
“One more year,” I agreed.
That year, I stopped tracking. I threw away the thermometer. I deleted the app. I told myself I was letting go, that I was making peace with it.
That’s a lie. I never made peace with it. I just got quieter.
It was a Tuesday in March when everything changed.
I’d been tired for a week. Bone tired. I thought I was getting the flu. Then one morning, I was making coffee, and the smell of it hit me, and I had to run to the bathroom.
I knelt on the tile with my forehead on the cool edge of the toilet seat, and I did the math in my head.
My period was nine days late.
I hadn’t even noticed. That’s how hard I’d stopped paying attention.
There was one test left under the sink. An old one, at the very back, behind a bottle of drain cleaner. I almost didn’t take it. I almost couldn’t bear to see that single pink line one more time.
I took it anyway.
I set it on the edge of the bathtub and sat on the floor and looked at the ceiling and counted to three hundred.
