When the police cruiser finally pulled away from the curb, its red-and-blue lights washing over the neat little ranch houses on our street, my kitchen window was still glowing behind me. From the driveway I could see straight in: the refrigerator, the sink piled with dishes, the small white envelope held to the stainless steel door by a tiny American flag magnet. The envelope was flat and harmless-looking, a single sheet of paper folded inside. But it had blown my life apart.
In the back of the squad car, Jeff twisted to look at me through the glass. His hands were cuffed in front of him, his lip split and his cheek already swelling, but he smiled anyway. Like this was all some grand romantic gesture, not the end of everything I thought I knew about my marriage, my family, even my own body.
Seven days earlier, that same envelope had arrived in my mailbox, still crisp, still sealed, still full of promise. Seven days earlier, I had believed I was about to be proven innocent. Seven days earlier, I still thought the worst thing that could happen at a family party was an awkward toast.
I remember standing in my kitchen that night, staring at that little flag magnet and the appointment card pinned under it, and making myself a quiet promise: whatever this paper said, I would not let anyone else write my story for me again.
Back then, I still believed my husband would keep his hands off my face.
My name is Marina, and my husband slapped me when I told him I was pregnant.
Evan and I had been trying to have a baby for two years. Two years of tracking cycles on an app, of ovulation strips lined up on the bathroom counter, of buying bulk boxes of tests at Target and telling myself this month would be different. Two years of watching single lines appear where two were supposed to be. Two years of wondering, quietly, if something was wrong with me.
Then, last month, I missed my period.
I bought one test, then went back and bought four more because I didn’t trust myself not to jinx it. I took all five in one sitting, lined them up on the edge of the sink like tiny plastic soldiers, then sat on the bathroom floor with my back against the tub and my knees pulled to my chest, staring.
When those two pink lines finally appeared, clear and undeniable, I started sobbing so hard I could barely breathe. It felt like every negative test from the last twenty-four months came rushing out of my chest at once.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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