Something in my husband had become tight and mean.
I’d swallowed the retort. Dr. Patel, my gynaecologist, had warned me at my last appointment that my blood pressure was creeping up and that sleep deprivation could push it into dangerous territory.
I hadn’t told my husband. I didn’t want to hear him sigh about it.
Now, at 2:55 a.m., I lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling fan and willing my body not to shift. The baby kicked hard, right under my ribs, and I sucked in a breath I tried to swallow silently.
I hadn’t told my husband.
Ryan stirred. I felt the mattress tighten beneath him, the way it does when someone’s muscles have gone rigid with irritation.
« Please, » I whispered to no one. « Please, just let me sleep. »
He didn’t hear me. Or, if he did, he didn’t answer.
I closed my eyes and counted the baby’s kicks, one, two, three, and told myself that later in the day things would feel less sharp. I told myself Ryan was tired, I was tired, and we’d find our way back.
« Please, just let me sleep. »
