He was 34, worked in IT, and had this calm energy that made you feel like everything was going to be okay. He made me laugh until my stomach hurt, brewed tea when I had migraines, and would tuck me in when I fell asleep on the couch watching true crime documentaries.
Two years into our marriage, we had a rhythm. Inside jokes, takeout Fridays, and lazy Sundays where we played board games in our pajamas. I was six months pregnant with our first baby. We had already picked out a name: Emma, if it was a girl, and Nate, if it was a boy.
Then, one Thursday evening, he came home late. I was in the kitchen making stir-fry vegetables, and he stood in the doorway, hands clenched.
“Lucy,” he said, “we need to talk.”
I remember wiping my hands on the dishtowel, my heart skipping but not panicking. I thought maybe he’d got laid off again, or he’d crashed the car. Something fixable.
But his face. I still remember it. Pale, drawn. He looked like he’d been holding something in for days.
He took a breath and said, “Judy’s pregnant.”
I blinked.
At first, I laughed. I actually laughed. Like this dry, shocked sound just came out of my throat.
“Wait,” I said, looking at him, “my sister Judy?”
