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One that involves him too.
I swallow against tears and bile, building the strength. It’s on the tip of my tongue, ready to spill out.
It feels like the right time, while we’re here. Alone. Mourning.
I pull back, and his eyes search mine, his face falling. He can sense this too—a thread that binds us.
My lips part to say the words, a tear rolling along my cheek—I was pregnant. With your baby.
And I lost it.
But another wave of nausea, consuming and merciless, rails into me, and I slap my hand over my mouth.
“Babe?” he asks.
I can’t answer. All I can do is spring off the bed and hope I make it to the bathroom.
