ADVERTISEMENT
Pregnant.
Caleb was downstairs. I imagined sprinting to him barefoot, holding the test high, watching every inch of distance between us disappear. I imagined him lifting me into the air, crying into my hair, whispering, “We did it, Harper. We finally did it.”
I slipped the test into the pocket of my silk robe and opened the bathroom door.
That was my first warning.
Usually, at that hour, our home pulsed with tiny expensive sounds: the dishwasher humming softly, Caleb’s whiskey glass tapping against ice, financial news murmuring low from his office. But that night, the silence felt rehearsed, as though the house itself were holding its breath.
Nothing.
ADVERTISEMENT