It’s raining the morning the test turns positive.
Not dramatic thunder.
Not cinematic lightning.
Just London rain—steady, gray, unapologetic.
I’m alone in the upstairs bathroom.
I hadn’t meant to buy the test.
It was an afterthought.
An “I’m probably just late because of travel” precaution.
My cycles have never been reliable.
Stress.
Flights.
Time zones.
And yet—
The second pink line appears almost instantly.
Clear.
Unmistakable.
Not faint.
Not hesitant.
Just there.
I sit down slowly on the edge of the bathtub.
The tile feels cold under my bare feet.
I stare at it.
Two lines.
Marcus is downstairs on a call.
Zara is still asleep in the guest room.
The house is quiet.
And something enormous just shifted.
My first reaction is not joy.
It’s not panic either.
It’s s
