Chapter Twenty-Seven - The Pregnancy Test on a Tuesday

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The Pregnancy Test on a Tuesday

WE WERE SUPPOSED to leave Thursday.
Some Airbnb up in the mountains.
No signal. No plans. Just us, a fire pit, and that sexy robe she only packed for “spiritual warmth.”

And then, Tuesday happened.

She was acting weird.

Not the cute kind of weird.
Not the “talking to the dog in a British accent” kind of weird.
The quiet kind.

Soft hands. Heavy eyes.
The kind of quiet where something’s clicking, and she hasn’t decided whether to say it out loud yet.

I found her in the bathroom, sitting on the closed toilet lid, staring at the floor like it was making fun of her.

She looked up.

“Babe...”

I blinked.

She held up the test.

Didn’t say a word.
Didn’t need to.

Two pink lines.

I sat down on the tub.
She stayed on the toilet.
Both of us in pajamas, 3 PM on a Tuesday, halfway through an open suitcase on the bed.

And then she laughed.

Just a small breath of disbelief.
Like the universe had pulled a fast one on us and she respected the play.

I didn’t say anything.
I just reached for her hand and held it like it was the most delicate, powerful thing I’d ever touched.

Then I whispered, “So… are we having a baby?”

And she said, “I think we’re having a lot of babies over the next eighteen years, actually.”

We missed our reservation, left our bags half-packed, and spent the night making pancakes and googling names and crying during diaper commercials for no reason.

The trip could wait.
The world could wait.

Because on that Tuesday, in our little bathroom with bad lighting and a buzzing ceiling fan, life changed.

Not with a bang.
Not with a scream.

Just a plastic stick and two pink lines and the feeling that everything was about to begin.