Sarah
Three minutes.
One hundred and eighty seconds.
My mind wanders to Matthew. What would a baby mean for us now?
I glance at my phone. One minute left.
My thoughts race ahead, imagining a positive result. Would Matthew be happy? Scared? Angry?
I picture his face—those crinkles around his eyes when he laughs, the serious furrow between his brows when he's thinking hard about something. Would our baby have his eyes, his dimples?
I wrap my arms around my middle, suddenly protective of something that might not even exist. There's a part of me—a part I'm almost afraid to acknowledge—that wants this test to be positive. Not just for what it might mean for Matthew and me, but for itself. A baby. Our baby. A tiny person made from the best parts of us.
My phone alarm shrieks, making me jump. Three minutes are up.
