Page 123 of Insidious

I watch her disappear after the dog. Luna sighs as yet another mini-explosion has been avoided—or at least postponed.

I love that sound. I walk over and slide an arm around her waist. She leans into me automatically. Neither of us has to think about it anymore. It is as natural as breathing.

My favourite thing in this world.

Luna winces, and my hand settles over the curve of her belly. The baby kicks hard.

I smile despite myself. This little plot twist neither of us saw coming.

We’d already decided to move when Luna wanted to do her engineering degree competencies. The applications were sent. I had put in my papers for a transfer. I had found the perfect house on Rightmove.

Then, Luna walked into the bathroom one morning holding a pregnancy test. I’d never seen her look so shocked. I sat down so suddenly, and I nearly missed the chair.

And then we laughed and cried and panicked. Mostly panicked. Beneath all the excitement, there was fear and the memory of how wrong things had gone.

Our first pregnancy had ended with a beautiful daughter, but it had nearly cost me my wife. There are dark memories I don’t visit often. I sometimes have nightmares of the sound of Luna crying when she thought I wasn’t listening.

The second pink line on that test brought all of it back.

I still wake up sometimes and put my hand on Luna’s back just to make sure she’s breathing. I haven’t told her that, but I think she knows because she is extra nice on my bad days.

“Any regrets?” she asks.

The question pulls me back to my present.

I don’t even need to think.

“No.”

Because here’s the thing: I am terrified of messing it up again, of not being enough, of losing all this happiness, because surely, nobody gets to keep this much.

“No?” Luna asks.

I shake my head.

“We always wanted an adventure.”

She smiles at that.

“Bolton isn’t exactly Morocco."

“It's change. Look forward, not back, right?”

“Yes, but sometimes back, if you are driving a car,” Luna shoots back.

I grin.

The baby kicks again, and she groans.

“Your son is practising football.”

“Rugby.”

“Football.”

“Rugby.”

I pull her closer. She fits perfectly against imperfect me.