That memory came back to her often later, because it was the first sign of what Mitchell did when he loved someone. He did not posture. He did not perform. He simply adjusted reality until cruelty had less room to stand.
When Wendy finally got pregnant, it happened on an ordinary Thursday morning after so many failed months that she had taken the test mostly out of habit. She set the stick on the bathroom counter, went to brush her teeth because she could not stand watching the window fill, then looked up and saw two clear pink lines that made the room tilt.
She sat on the closed toilet lid with one hand over her mouth and laughed through tears she had not given herself permission to expect.
Mitchell found her there three minutes later because she had texted him from ten feet away in the kitchen. He came in still holding his coffee mug and saw her face before he saw the test. Then he saw both. Then the mug hit the sink counter because he put it down too hard and coffee splashed onto the backsplash and neither of them cared.
“Are you serious?” he whispered.
Wendy could only nod.