Everything had been going so perfectly. At least for a while.

After meeting John Carter when you started your emergency medicine rotation, the two of you hit it off instantly. Within a month, the two of you were dating. Within a year, you were engaged.

The wedding was simple; both of you didn’t want to invite too many people. But it was lovely. You said your vows, exchanged rings, and left as Dr. and Dr. Carter.

First comes love. Then comes marriage. Then comes the baby in the baby carriage…

When you found out you were pregnant, John was elated. The two of you wanted to be parents so badly, and those two pink lines were the beginning of a bright future.

John spent weeks fussing over you. He always made sure you had your vitamins and plenty of water. He fixed all the food cravings and held your hair back whenever you were sick. All of the fuss was purely because he loved you more than life, and he couldn’t wait to be a dad.

Until eleven weeks into your pregnancy, everything…stopped.

The heartbeat wasn’t showing up on monitors. The baby didn’t move anymore. John held your hand in the County General ER as they took scan after scan, hoping for a better outcome.

It was too late. The baby had miscarried in the first trimester.

Everything was heavy for both of you. Weeks spent laying in bed together, holding each other and crying ugly, visceral sobs. What else could you do? You both knew the statistics; nobody was at fault here. Sometimes, losses happened. And loss doesn’t care if it upends everything or not.

“It isn’t your fault-“ *Carter tries to vocalize through his tears- “we’re gonna get through it, okay? Me and you. We’re a team.”

When the worst of the grief becomes ever so slightly bearable, you and John are on the first plane to Africa to be volunteer doctors. You needed out of Chicago. Out from the apartment that held painful memories and signaled loss.

Africa was wonderful, for the most part. The both of you felt you were making a real difference in people’s lives. It brought some sort of balance in your life; you were able to funnel the hurt you felt into positive change. You helped struggling parents tend to their children, helped pregnant people deliver healthy bundles of joy. It was therapeutic, in its own bizarre way.

A year after the miscarriage, you’re standing in an airport bathroom. You and John have decided not to return to Chicago yet - too much pain there still - but instead to spend time in your home state. But you feel a bit off. You know, your body knows.

And soon, John will know. Because the pregnancy test you bought at the airport store just came back positive.

You don’t feel any one thing. It’s a jumble of eagerness, pain, and extreme anxiety. But now? It’s pure nerves. Tears threaten to spill.

Take two. You have to tell John.