Jocelyn’s POV
The first test is face-down on the toilet tank because I can't look at those two pink lines anymore. Can't process what they mean.
The second test sits on the bathroom counter, digital display blank while it processes.
Three minutes. That's how long I have to wait.
I bought a digital one at a different drugstore—the kind that spells it out in words so there's no ambiguity, no squinting at faint lines trying to convince myself I'm seeing things wrong.
Two minutes and forty seconds. My hands won't stop shaking.
“Come on, come on…” I mutter to myself, keeping my eyes fixed on the lines that haven’t appeared yet.
Outside the bathroom door, I hear Zayden's alarm go off. The sound of him shifting in bed, probably reaching to silence it. Any second now he'll get up, head for the shower, wonder why the bathroom door is locked at 5:47 AM.
I hear his footsteps then, Zayden pulls the handle once.
"You okay?" His voice is sleep-rough behind the door, concerned.
I press my palm against the wood "Fine. Stomach thing. Be out soon."
Another lie. They're becoming easier, which terrifies me almost as much as the test currently calculating my fate.
Two minutes and ten seconds.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror above the sink. Pale, dark circles under my eyes from barely sleeping. I'd lain awake most of the night feeling Zayden's warmth beside me, listening to his breathing, trying to imagine how I'd say the words.
‘I'm pregnant.’
Just two words. Simple. Factual.
Except they're not simple at all.
Because the last time I was pregnant, I was twenty-two and alone and drowning. And the child I carried—beautiful, perfect Mia—almost died before she turned six.
Leukemia. Genetic predisposition. The oncologist's careful explanation about hereditary cancer risks that I'd tried so hard not to internalize.
‘Not all siblings inherit the same genetic markers,’ Dr. Patel had said. ‘But there is an increased risk factor we'd need to monitor.’
Monitor. Like watching and waiting for cancer to show up is just routine medical care instead of a nightmare dressed as precaution.
One minute and thirty seconds.
My stomach lurches—morning sickness or pure terror, impossible to tell. I grip the counter, breathe through my nose like Dr. Morrison taught me.
‘You're catastrophizing,’ her voice echoes in my head. ‘Stay in the present moment. Deal with what's actually happening, not what might happen.’
What's actually happening is I'm about to find out if I'm growing a human who might inherit the same broken genes that nearly killed my daughter.
One minute.
The knock on the door makes me jump.
"Jocelyn?" Zayden's voice carries that edge he gets when he's trying not to worry but failing. "You've been in there twenty minutes. Should I call Dr. Morrison?"
"No! I'm fine, just… give me five more minutes. Please."
Silence. Then: "Okay. I'm right here if you need me."
His footsteps retreat. I hear him moving around the bedroom, probably getting dressed, definitely concerned.
Thirty seconds.
I can't look, can't watch the display change from blank to life-altering. So I close my eyes, count my heartbeats, try to remember how to breathe like a normal person instead of someone drowning on dry land.
The timer on my phone buzzes.
Three minutes. Results ready.
I open my eyes.
PREGNANT 3+
The words glow accusingly in the dim bathroom light. Three-plus weeks since conception. Approximately five weeks pregnant total, which matches my missed period, the nausea, the exhaustion I'd been attributing to foundation stress.
Both tests. Both positive.
No room for error, no hoping I misread, no denial.
I'm pregnant.
The reality hits like a physical blow. I sink onto the closed toilet lid, test still clutched in my shaking hand, and try to process emotions that are too big and contradictory to name.
Joy, sharp and unexpected, because part of me wants this. Wants to give Mia a sibling, wants to expand our family, wants to see Zayden hold a newborn who looks like both of us.
Terror, immediate and suffocating, because what if this baby inherits Mia's genetic markers? What if I spend nine months growing someone just to watch them fight for their life before they can even walk?
Guilt, acidic and familiar, because I should be grateful. I'm married now, financially stable, have resources I didn't have at twenty-two. Women would kill for my circumstances.
But circumstances don't erase genetic probability.
I pick up the first test, look at both results side by side. Two different brands, same devastating confirmation.
The bathroom suddenly feels too small, walls pressing in. I need to tell Zayden. Need to share this. That's what married people do—they face things together.
Except my throat closes every time I try to form the words.
What if he's excited and I ruin it with my catastrophizing?
What if he's scared and confirms every fear I'm already drowning in?
What if this breaks us in ways we haven't even considered?
I stand on shaking legs, turn both tests face-down, and shove them into the back of the cabinet behind the tampons I won't need for nine months. If I carry to term. If everything goes right.
Stop, I tell myself firmly. Stop catastrophizing.
But my brain won't listen. It's already spiraling through worst-case scenarios—genetic counseling, amino tests, the possibility of choosing whether to continue a pregnancy if tests show problems. Choices I'm not ready to face.
I wash my hands three times, splash cold water on my face, try to look normal.
The woman in the mirror looks terrified.
I unlock the door. Step out into our bedroom where Zayden's sitting on the bed, fully dressed, waiting.
"Hey." His eyes scan my face, reading everything I'm trying to hide. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Just feeling off." I move toward the closet, grabbing clothes at random. "Must be that stomach bug going around."
"Jocelyn." He stands, crosses to me, takes my hands. "Talk to me. You're shaking."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You haven't been fine for three days." His thumbs stroke my knuckles. "Whatever it is, we can handle it. Together."
The words almost break me. Almost make me confess everything right here, right now.
But then Mia's bedroom door opens and she stumbles out, hair a wild tangle, clutching her stuffed tiger.
"Why is everyone up so early?" she mumbles, rubbing her eyes.
"Early morning," Zayden says smoothly, releasing my hands. "Want pancakes?"
"Always want pancakes."
She heads for the kitchen, and the moment shatters. Zayden gives me one more searching look before following her.
I lean against the closet door, breathing hard.
Not yet. I can't tell him yet.
Not until I figure out how to say I'm pregnant without it sounding like I might be growing another child who could die.
Not until I can separate joy from terror.
Not until I know whether this gift is also a curse.
The pregnancy tests stay hidden in the bathroom cabinet. The secret grows heavier with every hour I don't speak it.
And somewhere inside me, barely the size of a poppy seed according to the app I downloaded at 3 AM, a cluster of cells divides and multiplies and becomes something that could destroy me or complete me.
I just don't know which yet.