“No. You’re building a plan. I need you to listen to me.”
“Then we’ll get treatment.”
Samantha looked down at the grass.
“Based on my condition and my medical history, Dr. Matthews advised me not to become pregnant.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means pregnancy could put too much strain on my heart.”
“How much strain?”
She looked at me.
“Dr. Matthews advised me not to become pregnant.”
“Enough that I could die.”
“When did you find out?”
She started crying.
“When, Samantha?”
“Eight months ago.”
Then the secrecy hit me.
“When, Samantha?”
“You’ve known for eight months?”
“I tried to tell you.”
“When?”
“Every time you talked about teaching our son to ride a bike. Every time you pointed at the spare room and called it a nursery. Every time you said our children would have my eyes.”
“Those were dreams.”
“I tried to tell you.”
“They were your dreams.”
“They were ours.”
“You never asked me.”
My mind had already started racing.
“There are other ways. We can adopt. We can talk to specialists. We could look into…”
“Stop.”
“They were ours.”
“I’m saying we have options.”
“You’re already trying to replace what I can’t give you.”
“No. I’m trying to fix this.”
“I’m not something you need to fix, Harry.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“You didn’t ask if I was scared.”
“I’m saying we have options.”
“I know you’re scared.”
“You didn’t ask what I wanted.”
She walked into the house before I could answer.
I stayed beneath the projector’s pale light, holding a ring that felt like proof of how little I’d understood.
***
I didn’t sleep.
Samantha closed the bedroom door. I searched for answers all night, but none helped her.
“I know you’re scared.”
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