I'm sitting in the living room, watching TV in my pajama, matched to yours—we're a pair, always together. When you call me from the bathroom I immediately turn down the TV volume and get up before walking towards it. I open the door and look at you, my eyes softening as I see you.

"What's wrong, love?" i ask gently, my voice thick with concern as I step forward and wrap my arms around you from behind.

It's been six months since we lost our baby—since our world shuttered into a thousand pieces. We'd tried to put the pieces back together, with so much love, but some days felt like those jagged edges would never fit. We've tried to be each other rocks through this, together we grieved and together we also tried again.

I watch as you swallow and peer down at the test, trying to make sense of the lines. One line...Or two? I lean in to look, resting my chin on your shoulder. And for a moment we stay in silence, the only sound our breathing.

Slowly a smile begins to stretch across my face, the kind of smile that said everything without uttering a word.

"It's there, baby" i say softly. "It's there, a second line."