I sink to the cold tile floor, tests clutched in my white-knuckled grip like the most f****d-up bouquet there ever was. Twenty-four hours ago, I was terrified at the prospect of another pregnancy. Now, I’m mourning its absence like a death.
A laugh bubbles up from my chest—bitter, jagged, bordering on hysterical.
What kind of monster am I? What kind of woman mourns a pregnancy that never was, when she already has a beautiful child sleeping safely in the next room? When that same woman was paralyzed with fear at the possibility just yesterday?
The kind of woman who loves a monster, perhaps.
The kind who’s becoming one herself.
Anastasia is in the kitchen when I stumble out. I wanted to snuggle Sofi for a while, but she was sleeping soundly, so I thought it was best to leave her alone.
