It was a Tuesday in March when everything changed.
I’d been tired for a week. Bone tired. I thought I was getting the flu. Then one morning, I was making coffee, and the smell of it hit me, and I had to run to the bathroom.
I knelt on the tile with my forehead on the cool edge of the toilet seat, and I did the math in my head.
My period was nine days late.
I hadn’t even noticed. That’s how hard I’d stopped paying attention.
There was one test left under the sink. An old one, at the very back, behind a bottle of drain cleaner. I almost didn’t take it. I almost couldn’t bear to see that single pink line one more time.
I took it anyway.
I set it on the edge of the bathtub and sat on the floor and looked at the ceiling and counted to three hundred.
