“You’re pregnant.”

I looked from Dr Evans’ moving mouth down to the floor.

I’d been sitting here for ten minutes, listening to his droning voice, but it was now that my brain was almost refusing to translate those three syllables I’d just heard.

“I’m sorry, what?”

He watched me closely. Probably my face was not giving him a readable reaction to work with. Was he to say congratulations or offer me a box of tissues?

He chose the option of repeating the same words to me.

“You’re pregnant, Elora.”

He handed me the piece of paper, and I looked past all the medical jargon to focus on that one word.

Positive.

I had come to pick up my test results for my routine checkup. Not this.

I suddenly felt a phantom pressure settling behind my navel.

I couldn’t believe I actually had a baby inside me right now. Even though I shouldn’t be so shocked, since I knew exactly how it got there.

This was supposed to be the moment I burst into joyful tears. Then I’d rush home to my husband and break the news. He would freeze for a second or two before exploding into immense joy, sweeping me off the floor to twirl me around, before suddenly remembering to be careful not to hurt me and our baby.

But my marriage didn’t come with that kind of luxury.

Cedric and I didn’t enter a love marriage five months ago.

I had transitioned from a live-in nurse to a wife because his grandfather wanted me in his family. In his words, I was going to be the perfect woman for his grandson.

It was a jarring arrangement, but not a terrible one. Arthur Vandermere loved me like the parents I never had, and Cedric was a nice gentleman who treated me with respect.

So when I said yes, I wasn’t really looking for a fantasy. I just hoped for a stable family and partnership.

“I only agreed to this because Grandpa won’t hand over my inheritance until I marry you,” Cedric told me on our wedding night, his gentlemanly act dropping the second the door closed. “So don’t have any high hopes.”

I quickly learned that even my simple dream of stability was a fantasy.

“You don’t seem very happy,” Dr Evans noted. “If things are complicated, or if you are worried about doing this alone…”

“No, I’m just…” The paper vibrated in my hands.

I was two weeks gone. Two weeks ago when Cedric stumbled into my room drunk and touched me for the first time.

“It’s a lot to process,” he said.

“What about the father? Is he present?”

“Yes, he is.” My chest tightened with a sudden, fierce pride.

“That’s good.”

I nodded, genuinely believing it was. I placed a soft hand over my stomach.

Cedric had ordered me not to have high hopes on our wedding night, but holding that positive test, the hope came rushing back anyway.

Our little baby.

This was the breakthrough our marriage needed. Everything was going to change and my husband wouldn’t be so cold towards me anymore.

I walked out of the clinic with my heart racing, nervous about how he would take the news. But I still chose to look at the bright side.

I got home just around the time he usually returned from work and headed to his bedroom, the positive test result folded securely in my palm, my heart beating a hopeful rhythm against my ribs.

All the way up the stairs, I played out the conversation in my head. I imagined his silence, his shock, and more direly, the look on his face that would confirm everything between us was about to change for the better.