Two years into our marriage, we had a rhythm. Inside jokes, takeout Fridays, and lazy Sundays where we played board games in our pajamas.
I was six months pregnant with our first baby. We had already picked out a name: Emma, if it was a girl, and Nate, if it was a boy.
Then, one Thursday evening, he came home late. I was in the kitchen making stir-fry vegetables, and he stood in the doorway, hands clenched.
“Lucy,” he said, “we need to talk.”
I remember wiping my hands on the dishtowel, my heart skipping but not panicking.
I thought maybe he’d got laid off again, or he’d crashed the car. Something fixable.
But his face. I still remember it.
Pale, drawn. He looked like he’d been holding something in for days.
He took a breath and said, “Judy’s pregnant.”
I blinked.
At first, I laughed. I actually laughed.
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