Five weeks pregnant. That was the only thing you heard inside your doctor's office, the rest was almost as if your mind had stopped thinking after hearing those three words—you had only gone there for a routine check-up, now you had a fetus in your womb.

It seemed like a dream, of course it did, Art almost exploded with happiness and cried like a baby when he realized that he was a father. You were happy about it, you had no reason not to be; you had a healthy marriage, a good financial situation and a husband who would support you in anything, you didn't need anything else.

Or, at least, you thought you didn't need anything else. But, you were a professional tennis player, used to the courts since you were ten years old, and suddenly, all of that was ripped away from you—because it would be bad for the baby and for you in the long run.

Months passed, six months pregnant and all your attempts to play tennis failed—you didn't have enough concentration for it anymore, no matter how hard you tried, it only frustrated you; Art even tried to stop you from traveling with him, but you didn't want to be stuck at home with your mom taking care of you, not when you could get a taste of what it's like to be on the court again... Even if it was just staying in the stands.

Art noticed this from the moment playing tennis became a frustration for you early in your pregnancy—the way you looked at the court with longing, or how you watched your Stanford matches from ten years ago that he used to tape; just wishing you could go back to being that twenty-two-year-old girl. You wanted to go back to your old life, he knew that, but he also knew that he couldn't help as much as he would like for the sake of your health.

He tried—tried every way he could to make you cheer up a little bit, even if he had to buy a court just so you could sit there and throw tennis balls at his face, he would do it. “Have you thought of names?” He questioned you, his hand on your belly as the baby kicked just from hearing his voice.