Two red lines.

Clear. Unmistakable. Permanent.

Your hands won’t stop shaking. The plastic edge digs into your palms as you grip it tighter, as if letting go might make it disappear. But it doesn’t. It stays there, screaming the truth in a language you can’t bring yourself to accept.

Downstairs, you can hear movement. Heavy footsteps cross the foyer, muffled voices exchanged in low tones. The front door clicks shut. Then silence.

A moment later, footsteps climb the stairs. Each creak of the old wooden floorboards makes your chest tighten.

You stare at the test. Tears blur the red lines into watery smudges.