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Sometimes I wish people wouldn’t make jokes like this. People who’ve never had trouble conceiving don’t give it a second thought.

But for someone like me who’s faced month after month of disappointment, it’s like a stab in the heart, especially with my marriage over.

And with it, any chance of having a family.

Deciding my morning might be better spent sleeping off whatever this is, I grab my bag and head toward the parking lot, my stomach still queasy as I slide behind the wheel of my car. I take a few deep breaths, fighting the nausea. Maybe a mint will help.

I reach into my bag and rummage through it for the small container of mints I usually keep on hand. But as I do, I come across my emergency box of tampons.

I stare at it, trying to remember the last time I used one. I’ve been in Sycamore Falls almost three weeks now.

I’ve been sleeping with Joshua for two of those weeks.

And during all this time, I’ve never needed a tampon.

Worse, I don’t remember needing one during my road trip out here, either. Or right before I left Houston. That doesn’t mean anything. I could have just forgotten. I was dealing with a lot of shit back then. Getting my period was most likely the least of my concerns.

For the first time in years, I stopped counting. But I’m counting now, and something’s not adding up.

With trembling hands, I reach for my phone and open the ovulation calendar I’ve used religiously for the past several years. According to this, I should have gotten my period the day after I hopped in my car and left Texas.

Over three weeks ago.

Fuck.

I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the steering wheel.

Maybe I’m just late. Or it’s a side effect of stopping the medication I’d been on. Or the stress I’ve been under. Or I’m going through perimenopause in my thirties. There can be a variety of explanations for why I haven’t gotten my period.

I refuse to get worked up. Not until I see that plus sign on a pregnancy test.

Which I won’t. I haven’t in years. Why would it happen now?

By the time I pull into my parents’ driveway after stopping to grab a pregnancy test at the drugstore two towns over so no one would recognize me, my heart is pounding so fast I can barely catch my breath. Thankfully, Gary’s the only one here to witness my near-panic attack.

I hurry inside, giving my dog a scratch on the head before darting up the stairs. The en suite bathroom door slams behind me as I reach into my bag and fumble with the box. My hands are shaking so badly I struggle to rip it open. When I finally do, I don’t bother reading the instructions. I know how these work. I’ve taken enough of them over the past several years. I have no reason to believe this one will be any different than the others.

But I can’t ignore the gnawing sensation in my stomach that it will be.

The next three minutes are the longest three minutes of my life.

I try not to look at the test. Try to forget it’s even on the bathroom counter.

Instead, I pace the length of my room, Gary following every step of the way, his nails clicking against the hardwood.

“You’re making me nervous,” I whisper to him.

He tilts his head, staring at me.

“You wouldn’t understand. You’re a guy. And I had your balls cut off.”

He barks just as the alarm on my phone goes off.

For a second, I can’t move, worried whatever I’m about to learn will change everything. But I need to do this. Need to know the truth.

On a deep inhale, I step into the bathroom and move toward the counter.

I don’t pick up the test. I can’t. I just stare at it, not believing my eyes. Or maybe part of me thinks if I stare long enough, it’ll change.