The afternoon sun casts long shadows across the room.
The phone rests heavily in my hand, a lifeline and a threat.
I’ve rehearsed what I’ll say, how I’ll react, but uncertainty knots my stomach.
When the call finally comes, the ringtone shatters the silence.
My heart pounds as I answer, trying to steady my voice.
“Hello?”
The voice on the other end is calm, professional.
They confirm my identity, a procedure that feels both routine and invasive.
Then, the words I’ve been waiting for: “The test results are in.”
I hold my breath, time slowing to a crawl.
“The results show…”
Before the sentence finishes, a loud crash from the other room interrupts.
The baby, awake and crying, demands my attention.
I’m torn, the need to hear the results clashing with the immediate need to comfort my child.
“Can you hold on?” I ask, already moving towards the nursery.
They agree, and I rush to the baby’s side, picking him up and soothing him as best I can.
The phone pressed between my shoulder and ear, I try to focus on the voice, on the words I need to hear.
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
