Page 280 of Ricardo

My hand tightens around Ricardo’s before she says anything.

“The urine test is positive,” she says gently. “We’ll confirm levels with bloodwork, but yes, Miss O’Brien. You’re pregnant.”

The word is very different when she says it.

This is nothing like a pregnancy test in Ricardo's bathroom.

This is real. With a chart and a doctor.

And Ricardo's breath leaving him. It's barely audible, but unmistakable.

I look at him.

His face is still, but his eyes are not. His eyes are full of too much. Wonder and tenderness so fierce it almost hurts.

Ricardo pulls me into him carefully, one arm around my shoulders, his mouth against my hair.

Dr. Mehta gives us a moment to absorb the news, then explains what comes next. Follow-up appointment. Prenatal bloodwork. Vitamins. Rest when possible. Call immediately if there is pain or bleeding or if I cannot keep fluids down.

She says the nausea may be pregnancy, shock, or both, and I almost laugh because of course my body refuses to give one simple explanation for anything.

Ricardo listens to every word.

I know because his questions are precise.

How soon for blood results.

Which doctor should follow up.

What warning signs matter.

What I can eat.

What medications are safe.

Whether stress can harm the pregnancy.

At that, I look down.

Dr. Mehta answers gently, but I only hear pieces. Hydration. Rest. Support. One day at a time.

One day.

I can barely imagine the next hour.

When we leave the room, Ricardo keeps hold of my hand.

The hallway feels longer now.

“You need to tell them,” I say.

He looks down at me.

“The family,” I clarify, though he does not need me to. “They need to know.”

His jaw clenches. “I can keep it quiet until you are ready.”

“They need to know the stakes.”