“What are you trying to say? What does that have to do with anything?”
He stared at me. “I think you’ve been with someone else, and I don’t think those babies are mine.”
“What’s wrong?”
“What someone?” I asked. “Archie, I’ve spent two years hoping to have your baby.”
He looked away, leaving me to stand there with the ultrasound pictures still in my bag.
At our next appointment, he pulled out a chair and steadied my elbow as I sat.
For a moment, I leaned into his touch.
“They’re her babies.”
Then the nurse asked whether we wanted to hear the heartbeats again.
“Ask her,” Archie said. “They’re her babies.”
The nurse glanced between us.
“Our babies,” I corrected.
Archie picked up a magazine. I listened to both heartbeats while he turned pages beside me, and afterward, I couldn’t remember a single thing the doctor had said.
I listened to both heartbeats.
That Sunday, his mother came for lunch. My mom arrived carrying a casserole, and I briefly imagined an afternoon of discussing names.
Instead, Archie’s mother waited until we had eaten before folding her hands. “Perhaps there’s something you haven’t felt comfortable sharing.”
“Such as?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Nobody’s attacking you.”
I looked at Archie. He studied his empty plate.
“Tell her,” I said. “Tell her what the doctor told us.”
“Nobody’s attacking you,” he muttered.
Mom touched my wrist. “Just take the DNA test, sweetheart, so everyone can move on.”
“Mom, you keep asking for a test,” I said. “You’re making it sound like I’m the one holding this up.”
“I’m trying to help you both.”
“I don’t know what else to suggest.”
“Then why does it feel as if everyone’s waiting to see whether I’m a liar?”
She sighed. “I don’t know what else to suggest.”
Przeczytaj więcej, klikając przycisk ( DALEJ »» ) poniżej!
