The house was quiet. The kind of quiet that had become normal over the past year, but today it felt louder than usual. She could hear the clock in the hallway ticking, the faint hum of the AC, the distant sound of a car passing by outside. Nothing else. He wasn’t home yet.

.

She ran a hand over her still-flat stomach. It was strange, thinking about a life that small. A life that half belonged to him. She’d imagined this moment so many times when she was younger—how she’d tell him, how his eyes would light up, how he’d pull her into his arms and spin her around until she was dizzy. She’d imagined him pressing his forehead to hers, whispering that he was going to be a father, kissing her like she was the most precious thing in his world.

.

That was back when she believed in moments like that.

Now she just sat on the edge of the bed, holding the test in her hands, trying to figure out when to tell him. Tonight? Tomorrow? At breakfast, when he was already running late for another meeting? She didn’t even know if he’d care.

.

The bedroom door was still open. The bed was made—she’d done it this morning, even though he never noticed. His side was untouched, perfectly smooth, like he didn’t even sleep there anymore. She wondered when that had started, exactly. When had his side become just... a side.