Two lines

 It started with smells.

The citrus soap in the guest bathroom suddenly made me gag. Then the way Doc’s cologne lingered on his shirt—it used to make me melt. Now it sent me straight to the kitchen sink with a wave of nausea.

I blamed stress. Sleep deprivation. Maybe the ghost of trauma still clinging to the corners of my bones.

But then the calendar caught up with me.

One week late.

Two.

I waited until the house was still—Doc at the clinic, Anthony down for his nap—and crept into the downstairs bathroom with trembling hands and a drugstore pregnancy test burning a hole in my pocket.

The test sat on the counter like a secret.

I didn’t pace. I didn’t pray.

I just stared.

And then it appeared—quiet as a whisper.

Two lines.

Two tiny pink lines that rewrote everything.

I sank to the floor, back against the cold tile, hand resting instinctively on my stomach.

Oh my god.

It wasn’t panic I felt. Not entirely.

It was... reverence.

Because for the first time, I hadn’t begged for this. I hadn’t clung to it like a lifeline or used it as a reason to stay. It had just happened. In love. In warmth. In a place where I’d finally started to trust that I could belong.

Doc’s baby.

Our baby.

The thought made my breath catch.

I sat there for what felt like forever, the quiet broken only by the soft hum of the fridge and Anthony’s baby monitor crackling upstairs.

Eventually, I moved—slow, deliberately. Washed my face. Slipped the test into the drawer, like a secret still waiting for its shape.

That evening, I didn’t tell him right away. I couldn’t. I needed to hold it just a little longer. Needed to feel it settle into my bones. To feel real.

Instead, I watched him.

Watched the way he cleaned up Anthony’s toys without being asked. The way he kissed the top of my head in passing, as if love was a habit now. The way he read Goodnight Moon in a ridiculous British accent that made our son giggle until he hiccupped.

And I thought—God, if I could have pictured a father for my children…

Later, when Anthony was asleep and we were curled up in bed, I rolled over, resting my hand lightly on his chest.

“I need to tell you something,” I whispered.

His eyes opened instantly. Alert. Gentle.

“I’m pregnant.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was full. Thick with everything unspoken between us. His hand found mine, slid down to my stomach.

“You’re sure?”

I nodded. “Took the test today.”

Doc exhaled, long and slow. “Okay,” he said softly, then smiled. “Okay.”

Tears welled up, and I didn’t even fight them.

“You’re not scared?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m terrified,” he admitted, pulling me closer. “But I’m also… honored. That it’s us. That it’s you.”

I buried my face in his neck, letting the warmth of him hold me steady.

“Thank you for staying,” he whispered.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said.

And for the first time in a long time, I meant it.