For a full minute, I did not move.
Outside, leaves scraped across the brick front steps in dry bursts. The espresso machine in the kitchen still hummed from the cup I had abandoned half-brewed. Somewhere upstairs, the shower in the primary bathroom shut off, and I knew my husband, Nolan, would be coming down any second.
Still I stood there with the test in one hand and my other hand pressed flat over my stomach, as if my body already understood something my mind had not fully caught up to.
Pregnant.
After three years of trying, two losses, one surgery, one round of fertility medication I swore I would never repeat, and enough disappointment to teach me not to trust hope too quickly, I was pregnant.
I should have screamed.
I should have cried.
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