My body isn’t making things easy. For a microscopic dot, this baby is being a brat. It’s like, now that Matvei knows, the little one feels free to start tormenting me, way ahead of schedule.
I’m tired in a way I didn’t know I could be. Sleep-tired plus brain-tired plus a third, secretive, developed-in-an-underground-CIA-lab kind of tired. My boobs feel like they’ve been filled with concrete. I cried in the elevator yesterday because someone’s perfume in the lobby smelled like a gingerbread cookie, which reminded me of Christmases with my sister growing up.
This is going to be a long eight months.
If I get eight months. Which is a big if.
Dani has been calling, but I haven’t answered. The last thing I need is my cousin’s bloodhound nose and prying questions. Never one to be ignored, she
