When we listened to the message from my nurse on Friday, my husband cried big crumple-faced tears, some swirling medley of relief and awe. We clutched each other in crazed hiccups of astonished joy.
No stark, white pregnancy test window followed by the sickening thud of the plastic thing dropping with resignation into the trash can.
No howling in grief on the bathroom floor.
No rush of cold electricity following a phone call that starts with, “Unfortunately…”
No swollen, red-eyed tenure on the couch, curled into the fetal position, staring blankly.
I took his hand in mine, placed it squarely on my lower belly and purred, “There’s a little bean growing in there.” For now, in this moment, I have a burrowing, blossoming, bean.