“I am fine,” she insisted, though it sounded rehearsed rather than true.
I remembered the years we struggled with the idea of having children, the tests, the silence, and the slow collapse of hope that we never fully talked about.
“Rachel, tell me the truth,” I said quietly.
She closed her eyes for a second and then said, “Irregular bleeding, that is all for now.”
I knew it was not all, but she dressed quickly and left, saying she had to get back to work, leaving me with questions that would not settle.
Over the next few days I tried to focus on work, but the image of that morning kept returning, and when I texted her, she replied briefly that she was fine and told me not to worry.
A month later, everything changed.
It was late at night in Chicago when my phone rang, and her name appeared on the screen, making my pulse spike before I even answered.
“Daniel, I need to see you,” she said, her voice tight with something deeper than fear.
We met at a small café near my apartment, and when she sat down, I noticed how tired she looked, thinner and worn in a way that made my chest tighten.
“I am pregnant,” she said, and the world around us seemed to disappear.