The second blue line appeared at 6:13 on a Tuesday morning.
I sat on the bathroom floor of our townhouse in Portland, Oregon, gripping the pregnancy test with both hands as if it might break. For three years, my husband, Nolan Greer, and I had been trying for a baby. Three years of doctor visits, bloodwork, disappointment, forced smiles at baby showers, and nights when I cried quietly while he pretended to be asleep.
And now it was real.
I ran downstairs barefoot, still wrapped in my robe, my heart pounding so hard it hurt.
“Nolan,” I whispered.
He was sitting at the kitchen island, scrolling through his phone with a cup of coffee beside him. He didn’t look up.
“I’m pregnant.”
For one second, everything froze.
Then he lifted his eyes.
There was no joy in them.
No shock.
Only suspicion.
“How far along?”
“About six weeks. Maybe seven. I need to make an appointment—”
He stood so quickly the chair scraped the floor.
“That’s impossible.”
I blinked.
“What?”
He gave a cold, ugly laugh.
“Not my child.”
The words hit harder than any slap.
“Nolan, we’ve been trying.”
“I haven’t touched you in weeks.”
“That’s not true.”
His face twisted.
“Don’t insult me.”
I reached for him, but he stepped back like I had contaminated the air between us. Then he walked to the hall closet, pulled out my suitcase, and threw it open on the floor.
“What are you doing?”
“What I should have done months ago.”
