For almost two years, the empty room beside our bedroom had been where we put things we couldn’t bear to give away: a box of tiny clothes from my sister or a rocking chair Archie, my husband, had found at a yard sale.
The week I told him I was pregnant, he built the crib. I stood in the doorway while he tightened the last screw.
“Cribs work for both.”
“We don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl,” I said.
“Good thing cribs work for both.” He grinned and held out his hand so I could feel how steady it was. “I’ve been waiting to do this for ages.”
I wrote that down later in the notebook I’d started for our baby. It held the date of my first positive test, Archie’s disastrous first attempt at pancakes afterward, and stories about the people our child would grow up knowing.
At our ultrasound, I brought it along in my bag.
“Is everything all right?”
The doctor moved the wand across my stomach, then paused. Archie leaned closer to the screen.
“Is everything all right?” I asked.
“Everything looks good.” She smiled. “I’m seeing two babies.”
I laughed, then started crying. Archie stared at the screen.
“Twins?” he asked. “But neither of our families has twins.”
“I’m seeing two babies.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t have them,” the doctor said.
She pointed out each heartbeat, but Archie had gone quiet.
On the drive home, he answered my questions with a word or two and kept his eyes on the road.
I waited until we were inside. “You’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t have them.”
“No one in my family has ever had twins. No one in yours has either. So explain to me how we’re suddenly having two.”
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