For an instant, my brain refused to process what my eyes saw. I let out a short, breathless laugh, convinced that it must be some kind of cruel mistake.
Then I realized what was next to the cake.
A small white stick. Made of plastic. Family.
A positive pregnancy test.
The world bowed.
My fingers went numb as I gripped the edge of the desk. The sounds faded away, replaced by a roar in my ears. Jake had found it: the exam he'd hidden in the back of the bathroom cupboard, among towels and cleaning products, foolishly hoping he'd have time to explain it all properly.
I hadn't even told him yet. Not because he didn't want to, but because he was afraid.
Terrified by hope. Terrified of disappointment. Terrified of reopening wounds that we have been trying to close for years.
Jake and I had been married for seven years. Seven years of love, laughter, and silent companionship, and seven years of negative tests, doctor's visits, kind compassion, and apologies whispered in the dark.
When doctors told Jake she was infertile, something inside her broke. He never said it openly, but I saw it in his hunched posture, in how he avoided talking about children, in the apologies he offered for things that were never his fault.
"I'm sorry," he said over and over again. "I know you wanted to be a mom."
But I hadn't given up. Not even with him. Not even with us. And neither in the face of the possibility, however small, that the doctors would make a mistake.
I don't even remember leaving the office. Suddenly, he was clutching the steering wheel, his knuckles white and tears clouding the road as he drove home.
Jake's car was already in the driveway.
My heart was pounding as I entered. The house felt tense, as if holding its breath. Jake was in the room, pacing back and forth, his jaw clenched and his face flushed with anger and pain.
Continued on the next page//
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