The test was on the bathroom counter, glinting in the morning sun like some kind of sacred artifact. I had taken it on a whim, an impulse driven by a fleeting thought—a moment of nostalgia mixed with a desperate wish for something more. I could almost laugh now; at sixty-five, the idea of becoming a mother seemed so far away, a dream I had long since set aside in favor of reality.
Yet, here I was. I swung my legs off the bed and padded softly to the bathroom, the cool tiles waking me fully. As I picked up the small plastic stick, my heart raced. Two bright pink lines. I blinked and blinked again, convinced my eyes were deceiving me. I’d taken tests before—dozens of them, in fact—each time met with disappointment. But these lines were unyielding, stark against the white background. I was—
“Pregnant?”
